Pirates of the Caribbean: The Rum Isle Affair
by MystyAngel
Summary: An arranged marriage is the ailment of young Grace Allister and she's desparately seeking the cure. However, when the best medicine involves pirates, not-so buried treasure and plenty of swordplay, is it really worth the pain? (Chapter ELEVEN up!)
1. Grace

Pirates of the Caribbean: The Rum Isle Affair

It may be quite true that every young girl has secret dreams of being something she isn't. A princess may dream of hefting the sword, a peasant girl may dream of a prince appearing suddenly to free her from toil. More oft than not these dreams fail to come true—but that won't stop young girls from dreaming...

"To bed with you now, Miss. We've an early start tomorrow," the old nursemaid's kind voice rang true, but her charge paid them little heed.

"Is it really true Mrs. James? Are we really going to live in a castle?" the excited eight-year old pushed off the light sheets, meant to protect her from the slight chill of early spring, and sat up, leaning eagerly toward her elderly keeper.

The old woman let out an overly exasperated sigh in jest. "How many times must I tell you, child?" she asked, raising a hand to rub her forehead. The girl giggled wildly, her bright, blue eyes sparkling.

"We'll not be moving into a castle, Miss, but a great old manor house. You father acquired it nearly two months ago and now it's all ready to be lived in. We've got just one more day on the road before we arrive," she said, reaching down to ruffle the child's dark brown curls.

"And is there a stable?" the girl asked, grinning up at the woman who was grandmother, mother and best friend to her.

"Well, I'd assume so. And lots of horses for you to look at," the nursemaid told her. For years, she'd listened to her charge's professions of love for the beasts and been a kind critic to her drawings of them.

"And ride! I'm going to race around the grounds and maybe Daddy will even let me have my own little mare—that's a girl!" the girl was grinning now, her eyes far away.

"Maybe so, Miss, but for now it's bedtime. Tomorrow you'll get to see your new home and everything that goes with it," Mrs. James told her quietly as the girl obediently lay down and pulled her sheets up to her chin.

"Goodnight, Mrs. James," she said, closing her eyes.

"Goodnight, little Grace," the old nursemaid replied, blowing out the candle on the bedside stand. She lay down on the floor beside the girl's bed, contemplating the morrow. The girl was still of the notion that her father would let her do anything, but the nursemaid knew that the child's antics had long ago ceased to be amusing to the man. _He's got a head for business and nothing else, that man._ Mr. Edward Allister wanted a son, but his wife had died eight years ago, while giving birth to their first child. He hadn't remarried—he'd probably been too lost in his business dealings, mused the old woman. At first, the grief-stricken man had given in to his child's every whim, but lately he was quick to anger, forbidding the child any "unwomanly" activity. Mrs. James had a feeling these restrictions would soon include horseback riding. Her mind continued to wander for a time, imaging little Grace racing all over the English countryside on a new pony, until she drifted into sleep.

Young Grace, on the other hand, could hardly sleep a wink. Excitement bubbled in her stomach and she felt as though a thousand butterflies were tickling her innards. She set her mind to the horses she'd have. She wanted a little bay mare more than anything—or maybe a grey. Her mind spun through a rainbow of shimmering equine coats. She saw herself riding, working with them, raising her own colt. It was very early in the morning when Grace finally drifted into slumber and scant hours before she was awakened once more by Mrs. James. Dressing herself drowsily, she stumbled down the inn's stairs with her nursemaid to her father and the carriage that would take her to her new home.

Grace was delighted to find a stable when they reached the manor, and several horses as well. After that initial spark of happiness, however, she seldom felt any delight at the new house. He father forbade her from setting foot inside the stable and hired a tutor to improve her manners and impress upon her the importance of proper womanly behavior. It wasn't long before Grace began to despise these lessons and her father for imposing them upon her. Disobeying his wishes, she claimed her own horse in the stable—a small red mare who quickly grew to enjoy Grace's company and no one else's. Most of the help knew of her mare, but her father did not. She found as many little ways to defy him as she could—indeed, it became a bit of a game to her. She quietly helped the stable master break a new colt, learned sword work from the gardener, who had once been a soldier, and she also read. Not cookbooks or books on etiquette (though she was forced to pour over them in her lessons), but books of history and adventure. There had been a few close calls—the worst of which involved hiding behind a pile of old bedding for nearly an hour while her father discussed breeding with the stable master—but her busy father remained blind to her actions.

Of course, when she was called into his study the day after her fifteenth birthday she feared the worst. That father had somehow found out about Sundance—the mare—or the lessons in swordplay or her constant help in the stable. Indeed, he heart usually skipped a few beats whenever she was summoned to his chamber. Such meetings never went well and usually involved some screaming on his part. She had driven away more than one tutor with her irksome behavior under their care (she was on her fifth) and her father's irritation at each woman's departure had grown steadily worse—last time he had threatened to fire old Mrs. James and she had vowed to herself to be good. The old woman had gone from nursemaid to maid—though Grace hardly needed a maid for anything besides tightening a corset—and was far too old to find good employment elsewhere.

On this day, her father's stony blue eyes displayed no anger—in fact, he seemed almost pleased. Grace's stomach sank. If her father was pleased, it did not bode well for her.

"Good afternoon, Father," she said with a slight nod of her head. _I'll be damned if I bow to him_. "You wished to see me?" The man's smile was broadening.

"Yes, my dear. I've a wonderful surprise for you. Do you remember Master Fenton?" he asked, glancing down to the papers on his desk.

_Oh, I remember _him _all right. That boorish son of a goat nearly ate our dinner all by himself last time he visited._

"Why, yes, Father, I remember him," she replied quietly, keeping her thoughts to herself.

"Wonderful! He has a son nearly your age. I've arranged for you to marry him."

"What?" she slipped, her voice going from light and airy to laced with venom. Her father gave her a stern look as she began to pale. She'd met Master Fenton's son. Brody Fenton was not what she'd consider a 'catch' and was five years her senior. While he wasn't on his way to matching his father in girth, he had a reputation in London that had reached the manor. He'd had a number of mistresses, all of whom had ended up dead on the street or hidden away by friends and relatives—one woman, they said, he'd beaten to death with his own two hands.

"You heard me," the smile had disappeared. "You'll be wed in three years. In one year's time we'll be traveling to the West Indies, where young Fenton is beginning a shipping company. Now get out, I've got to make some more arrangements," he gaze returned to the papers on his desk as she spun to leave. "And Grace?" she paused at his words. "I wouldn't use that tone again, you'll sorely regret it," his words held an ill-willed humor that filled her with cold fear. The door slammed resoundingly behind her.

It was nearly a month after Grace's sixteenth birthday when her father made good on his word to travel to the West Indies and promptly uprooted his daughter from the place she'd called home for the latter half of her life. The girl was, to say the least, unhappy about the voyage and vowed to hate whatever port where they finally put in. She said her goodbyes to Sundance, the stable master, the gardener, and the cook (who had recently begun to teach her herb-lore) quietly, avoiding her father's suddenly scrutinous eye. Only her father's assistant and old Mrs. James would join them in the Caribbean—after her marriage, Mr. Allister planned to return to the manor and continue his life as a business man (hopefully with a little new business from the West Indies). Their passage was on a well-respected merchant ship, something Grace, at first, thought to be a bore. It wasn't long, however, before she began to enjoy herself. The salt in the breeze added a refreshing quality to the air and the constant rolling of the waves created a soothing sound. Day and oftentimes night she studied the crew as they worked and befriended several of them before the journey's end. She had found a new passion—the sea.

They docked in Port Royale, Jamaica, where Brody Fenton was awaiting their arrival. It was then, picking her way carefully down the gangplank, that Grace got her first good look at him in years. He was, she supposed as she crossed the dock to greet him, rather handsome. A tall man, he towered over her, his figure was not thin or broad, but sinewy muscular, and his skin a working-man's tan. He was finely dressed in blue and gold and smiled down at her. The smile seemed genuine enough, but it did not reach his eyes, which were dark and cruel.

"Ah, my dear Grace," he lifted her hand, his grip light, to his lips. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Indeed, young Master Fenton," she replied, trying to keep the ice from her voice and her eyes from narrowing.

"The young master and I have things to discuss, Grace," her father cut in. "The carriage will take you to the house," her father waved a hand toward the waiting affair, pulled by a pair of grey horses.

"Of course, Father," she said without sparing a glance at him. She picked up her skirts—her father had insisted on one of her nicer dresses for the day (and she was roasting for it)—and walked to the carriage. Not without noticing the gaze of Brody Fenton, however, and she had a bad feeling it wasn't her pretty face he was staring at appreciatively. She climbed into the carriage without waiting for help, Mrs. James right behind her.

The house, while not as large as the manor and lacking any real grounds, was pleasant enough. She even caught herself rather liking the view from her room, which afforded a sight of the harbor and the blue ocean beyond. She changed into a simple, light dress and her most comfortable pair of shoes (outside of the riding boots the stable master had given her four Christmases ago). Grace found her old friend in the maid's quarters.

"I'm going to have a look around, Mrs. James," she said, grinning in spite of herself. The elderly woman scrutinized her for a few moments.

"If you're careful, Miss," she said, smiling.

"Yes ma'am," she smiled and turned with a twirl of skirts.  Exploring a little just to find them, she trampled down the servants' stairs. It took a little looking, but she quickly found her way out of the house.

Not quite sure where to start, she simply wandered the streets. _Perhaps I'll end up liking this place, anyway. Dammit. _The hot summer breeze carried the sea air to her and she closed her eyes, smiling. A sudden blow to her right shoulder jerked her awake and out of her relaxed state. A pretty young woman was rubbing her arm and giving Grace an annoyed look. Suddenly feeling very clumsy and very _stupid_, she immediately began apologizing.

"I'm sorry, Miss, I didn't mean to. I wasn't paying any attention to where I was walking. If there's anything I can do—"

"Calm down, lass. No harm done," the voice belonged the young man standing beside the woman, whose expression had loosened into a smile.

"Oh," her voice was filled with more than a little surprise. "Well, I...I _am_ sorry."

"My name is Elizabeth Swann and this is my fiancée, Will Turner," the woman said with a nod of greeting.

"I'm Grace. Grace Allister. My father and I just arrived in the port this morning," she put a slight spin on the word 'father' as her embarrassment melted into relaxation. The pair had immediately put her at ease, though she wasn't quite sure why.

"Pleased to meet you. How was your voyage—and where do you hail from?" Elizabeth asked, curiosity taking over.

"I'm from Hertford shire, north of London. And the voyage was wonderful—I was a little disappointed when we saw no pirate ships, however. The crew told tale upon tale of pirates." At the words 'pirate ships', Will and Elizabeth had grinned and locked eyes. Grace blinked, a little confused.

"What did I say?"

Will turned to her, humor sparkling in his eyes. "Elizabeth and I recently had a..." he glanced at his wife-to-be, a wry smile gracing his lips, then looked back to Grace. "A run-in with pirates."

"Really?" Grace's eyes lit up as she studied the two carefully. Elizabeth's long brown hair was fashionably up, her pretty brown eyes shaded by long lashes. She wore a yellow and white floral-print dress, the under-dress providing ruffles at the elbow, bosom and bottom of the skirt. She wore no necklace and her ears were unpierced, in fact, the only piece of jewelry that adorned her was a slim golden band on her ring finger. She was pretty enough to make Grace feel horribly inadequate, but she had kind eyes that made Grace forget about looks. Will was a handsome young man. He wore dark pants, brown leather boots, and a loose white shirt under a dark green-gold vest. He kept a cleanly trimmed goatee and his long hair spilled past his shoulders. His eyes, too, were brown, with a spark for life. A large feather seemed to sprout from the grey hat that sat atop his head.  Elizabeth certainly didn't look the type to be mixing with pirates, but her future husband fit the part.

"I'd be happy to tell you all about it, if you'd like," Elizabeth told her.

"Well, I'd certainly love to hear it, if you really don't mind," Grace grinned—she'd come across plenty on pirates in her father's books, but there really was nothing like hearing about something firsthand.

"We were just on our way the smithy, if you'd care to join us," Will said with a smile, gesturing down the road. Up for anything, Grace grinned broadly.

"I'd love to," she said and fell into line beside Elizabeth, who quickly began to spin her tale.

"It all really started years ago—with cursed Aztec gold. A chest of it was hidden on the Isla de Muerta, an island that cannot be found unless you know where it is. A pirate by the name of Jack Sparrow learned the location of the isle and he and his crew set out to plunder the gold. Of course, there was a mutiny that ended with Sparrow marooned on an island and his first mate, Barbosa, at the helm of Sparrow's ship, the Black Pearl. It wasn't until Barbosa and the crew had frittered away most of the cursed gold that they realized the magnitude of what they had done—"

"And it wasn't until Sparrow showed up that our trouble really started," Will cut in.

            "I'm quite aware of that," she replied dryly before continuing.  "The crew of the Black Pearl were cursed men—not yet dead, but nor were they living.  Piece by piece they sought out each gold coin until they had but one piece yet to find.  They pillaged the waters of the Caribbean for ten years before they found it…"

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Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the characters from the _Pirates of the Caribbean_, including, but not necessarily limited to, Will Turner, Elizabeth Swan and (Captain!) Jack Sparrow.


	2. The First Year in the West Indies

Grace was fascinated by Elizabeth's tale of the Black Pearl and soon she began to spend quite a bit of time in the young woman's company. They spent an hour or more each day in the smithy with Will, who was expanding on Grace's knowledge of the sword. Both were sympathetic when she told them of her impending marriage—they were acquainted with Brody Fenton and it seemed his reputation was well deserved. He was apparently a regular visitor to the less reputable houses of Port Royale and had once made a pass at Elizabeth.

The young Allister thoroughly enjoyed her days. On top of the fencing lessons from Will and hearing the pair's favorite pirate stories, she and Elizabeth often went shopping. While it wasn't something Grace usually cared to do, the diverse shops of Port Royale were enough to turn anyone's head. The markets were loud and crowded with all sorts of people—rich, poor, kind, cruel, law-abiding, or lawless, they could be found traipsing through the streets of the city. All kinds of accents flooded her ears—some decipherable, some simply unintelligible. The smells that met her nose ranged from sweet-smelling perfumes to the rancid odor of the unwashed. The shops themselves carried all kinds of strange objects that drew Grace into a mood of exploration. The pair of young women often ate lunch in pubs, chatting and gossiping with barmaids. Grace's favorite, _The Tattered Rose_, seemed to be a lively place after sunset—or so said the barmaid, Lena. The girl would have loved to return after nightfall on many a night, but she knew her father would never permit it. Indeed, her father was more short-tempered lately than she'd ever seen him. He didn't like that she was spending time with Elizabeth and Will, but Elizabeth was the governor's daughter and he knew better than to slight a powerful man's family. Indeed, while Grace's days were wonderful, her evenings were things of dread.

She always dined with her father in the evenings—unless it was a rare occasion when Elizabeth could invite her to dinner. Often they were joined by Brody Fenton, who spent his meals either ignoring her completely or making polite conversation filled with small innuendos while gazing at her with a not-so-very-pure look. She did her best to finish her meals quickly and retreat to her rooms, where she dreamed of cavorting on the streets.

During a lesson in the smithy one day, Grace mentioned her desire to see the city at night. Elizabeth laughed and Will shook his head. They were quick to point out that the bars of Port Royale weren't the safest place for a young woman of money.

"Well, what if I weren't a young woman of money?" she asked, blocking a strike from Will.

"What would you be, then?" Elizabeth gave her a quizzical look from her place on the sidelines.

"I...I'd be..." she trailed off, countering Will's moves. "Ah!" she said forcefully, pushing her opponent backward. "I'd be a boy; an apprentice or a thief, I couldn't get into too much trouble that way."

"Ha," Will said, sarcasm in his voice as his disarmed his now-distracted pupil.

"Well, I don't think it's that bad an idea," Elizabeth was smiling.

Two weeks later, the two girls were walking into _The Tattered Rose_, disguised as boys. During their shopping trips, they'd slowly acquired the necessary effects and it was this night that they put their plan into motion. Each was dressed in a loose-fitting shirt, pants, boots, and—probably most important—a cloak. To lessen any chance of being discovered, they'd bound their chests tightly. The night was filled with lewd jokes, loud singing and plenty of grog—a mixture of rum and water. Elizabeth thought it a little entertaining, but didn't really care for drunken revelry. Grace thought it was the best time she'd ever had. After that, she often slipped out in the middle of the night—with and without Elizabeth—to have a few drinks as "Grey", a thief from London. Indeed, Grey became a regular and well-known patron of _The Tattered Rose_. She quickly picked up the rules of many popular card games, and began to gamble as well as drink. While she wasn't the best card player anyone had ever seen, she did win periodically and often bought a round for every patron in the bar with her winnings.

She made many friends in the pubs—well liked because of her likelihood to loose at cards and spend her money on other men's drinks. Not only was the pub frequented by local craftsmen and scoundrels, sailors often found their way to the _Rose._ Grey could often be found in their company, listening to any stories they were compelled to tell.

"He's goin' tae go off and turn sailor on us, boys!" was often yelled by Grey's favorite pubgoer. An older man with thinning brown hair just beginning to fade to grey and an overly-large gut, Garth Cooper could usually be found telling young Grey tales of the sea from his days as a pirate.

The laughter-filled tavern was a wonderful alternate to the dark silence that awaited her at home. It did, however, create a few problems. She always slipped out well after her father had gone to bed—or tried to. More than once she'd had a close call when sneaking past his surprisingly occupied study. Mrs. James, she was sure, was wise to her nightly adventures, but said nothing about it. This surprised Grace more than a little—she'd been expecting words of admonishment from the woman, at the very least. Perhaps she was just letting her charge live a little before her marriage—Mrs. James didn't care for Brody Fenton one bit and she also knew that there'd be no sneaking out once their vows had been exchanged. The biggest problem Grace's nightly episodes presented were her hangovers. After the first night, she nearly didn't make it to the smithy in time for her lesson. When she arrived, Will took one look at her and told her to go home and sleep it off—the same thing Elizabeth happened to be doing. Ashamed, she vowed never to miss another lesson for something so stupid as a hangover. After that, she was careful not to drink too much, but it didn't do much good until her body built up a tolerance for the slightly bitter mixture. She was forever brewing up hopeful remedies and often feigned sick for her father in the mornings. Unbeknownst to her, her father began to worry that she would die before he'd had her married off—something he did not want. He was very eager to make such a connection to the wealthy Fenton clan and a dead bride wasn't the way to do it.

Indeed, it was probably Grace's fondness of nightly revelry that was her downfall. It had been nearly a year since her arrival in the West Indies. Grace was happy with her life there—though she had a terrible feeling that joy would disappear the moment she said her vows to Brody Fenton. He'd asked her to several private dinners, all of which she had reluctantly attended. His miniscule innuendos had disappeared, only to be replaced by far more blunt statements. He'd more than once tried to entice her into a "roll in the hay" as her friends at the Rose called it, and she'd blatantly refused—telling him that she'd prefer to be pure for him on their wedding day. At their last dinner, three nights before, he'd finally threatened her. _If that butler hadn't come in..._A chill crept over her skin, and she shivered involuntarily, remembering Brody's iron grip on her wrist and the dangerous look in his eye. Grace was on her way to _The Tattered Rose_ after a long, silent dinner with her father followed by a long, unpleasant wait for him to slither off to bed—damned snake that he was. Spotting the weather-beaten wilting and fading red rose on its familiar signpost above the pub's entrance, her pace quickened. She needed a drink tonight—she hadn't gotten to the bar since the night before her encounter with Brody.

She eagerly slipped through the front door, letting the hood of her cloak down only after she was in.

"Ahaha! 'Ere's the boy now!" she heard Garth call from the bar. "I was jus tellin' ole Blackie abou' the time ye lost tae that old seaman Carthy in cards! Now there was a loss, boys, there was a loss." The pot-bellied man was waving her over. He sat with a black-haired, tatter-clothed sailor who stopped by the pub every time he came to port. The loss he spoke of had been splendid—she'd lost everything she'd had in one go. She shook her head and made her way over to the empty stool beside Garth. Several of the regular patrons called their greetings across the crowded pub—it was a busy night.

"'Ow've ye been, lad? I 'aven't seen 'iden nor 'air of ye since Friday night, where've ye been off ta'?" he asked as the barmaid set a mug down in front of her. The barmaid, Lena, winked. She was one of the few people who knew Grey's "little secret".

"I've been keepin' busy. Too bad I wasn't here to keep you out of trouble, eh? You probably could have used it," she teased, her voice pitched as low as she could keep it.

"I prolly could 'ave at that, lad, I prolly could 'ave," the older man laughed his loud, rolling laugh.

"I 'ear ye've 'ad better luck at the tables than ole Garth's lettin' on, laddie. I'm glad to 'ear you're finally gettin' some luck in ye," Blackie grinned, showing several vacant spaces along with his crooked yellow teeth.

"I s'pose ye could..." she trailed off. Two men had just entered the bar, drawing the attention of most of the pub's occupants (as most newcomers did). The first man wore a dirty white shirt under a tattered black vest. Short white hair was visible beneath his ragged hat, including shaggy sideburns. She dismissed him the moment she caught sight of his companion.

He wore a tall set of boots—the type one often saw on sailors—and dark pants that had more than likely seen better days. A thick brown leather belt and a faded red sash circled his middle and she could see an old brown vest and white shirt beneath a dark knee length coat. His face was tan, his hair as long as hers but seldom brushed--or washed, she suspected. His bead was long and somewhat well kept, braided into two separate strands with beads at the end of either. He, like Will, favored a goatee, but his wasn't as cleanly trimmed as the smith's. His smile was a bit lopsided, a gold tooth showing between his lips. A red bandana was tied wide across his forehead and a strand of beads hung from the top of the material nearly into his face. Indeed, the man had beads all over in his hair, making for quite an interesting look. His eyes were dark and she could see both amusement and a shrewd intelligence in them. She found herself suddenly self-conscious before sense caught a hold of her and reminded her that she was a young male thief named Grey and _not _a young lady named Grace. He reminded her a bit of a gypsy, but more of a pirate—especially with the pistol tucked into his belt and the sword at his side. In his hand he held a tattered old hat. There was a swagger in his step when he walked further into the bar that suggested he'd already visited one of the other establishments on the street—or perhaps he hadn't gotten his land-legs yet.

"Jack ole boy! 'Ow long's it been?" Garth was no longer beside her; instead he was making his way toward the dark pirate, who grinned.

"Coop, still drinkin' away yer life, I see," he replied, following Garth back to the bar.

"This 'ere's Grey," Garth was gesturing to her. "An' ye know ole Blackie, I'm sure."

"I surely do," he said, clapping the sailor on the back in greeting before turning to her. His eyes narrowed and he gave her the once-over. He raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth about to speak.

"'E's a good lad, though 'e's not so spiffing at cards, eh, Grey?" Garth cut him off. Jack glanced from Garth back to her, then nodded to her.

For a while the two old friends—Jack and Garth—caught up on news and each other's lives, then Jack asked if they'd like to play cards. Time passed quickly as the four of them sat at a table dealing the night away with laughter, stories, gambling, and quite a bit of grog. Grace knew she was overdoing it and that she'd have one hell of a hangover the next morning, but she excused herself by remembering that it had been a long couple of days.

The next morning was hell. She'd left the Rose late—or early, depending on how one looked at it. The dim light of pre-dawn lit her way home and she was extra-careful as she crept through the house and into her room. Quickly, she downed some of a local remedy for drink and a glass of lukewarm water, then changed—hiding the men's clothes carefully in the bottom of the trunk at the foot of her bed. She climbed into bed, more than ready for a few hours of sleep.

Mrs. James shook her awake far too early. Head throbbing, she squinted up at the old woman. She blinked her eyes open hurriedly when she noticed the state her maid was in. Her eyes were wide and her face wrinkled in concern. The moment she saw Grace was awake, she dashed to the closet, moving as quickly as her old body could carry her. Grace was out of bed in a flash and pacing quickly toward the woman, who had already found a dress and was pulling it from the hanger.

"What's wrong?" she asked, heart pounding and the ache in her head only getting worse with each step.

"It's your father. He's downstairs with young Master Fenton. They mean ill, child, I'm sure of it. Let's hurry dear, no cause in getting them angry," she said as Grace took the dress from her. She had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach—though sense told her that it was just the hangover.

Minutes later she was dressed and walking gracefully down the steps to the main hall, where her father was standing with Brody Fenton.

"You called for me, Father?" she asked, bouts of nausea rolling through her like waves.

"Yes. Master Fenton and I have come to a new agreement," his voice was cold, hard. "We both believe it is in everyone's best interests if you wed early and have agreed upon a date three weeks from now."

Cold, terrible hands gripped her soul and she felt as though her stomach had dropped through the floor. The icy breath of fear was upon her, driving the hangover's effects from her mind.

"What?" her voice was quiet, hollow.

"We're to be married in three weeks, my dear Grace," Brody put in, smiling.

"No..." she could barely hear herself.

"What was that?" anger sparked in her father's eyes, his voice was low and dangerous.

"No!" she uttered again, glancing around. The door. The door wasn't far. "I'm not going to marry that swine!" She didn't know why she was suddenly so bold—the aftereffects of her heavy drinking the night before or the freedoms she'd enjoyed since she'd first began slipping out—even since she'd first met Will and Elizabeth. Brody started toward her, his eyes cold, and she ran for the door. She pulled it open and dashed out of the house—down the drive. She was running as fast as her legs could carry her. She heard her father's yells behind her and feet hitting the ground—probably Brody running after her. She couldn't go to the smithy—not only would they find her, Elizabeth wasn't there yet and Will was probably not up yet. It wasn't even mid-morning yet. She cursed aloud, using several colorful words she'd picked up in the _Rose_. Then it came to her—she could go to the _Rose_. There was always _someone_ there! Darting though the streets, she didn't take a direct route to the tavern—in case she was being followed.

The familiar sign with its faded rose came into view and she pushed herself even harder, racing for the door. It swung open easily, unlocked. The place was nearly deserted. Lena, behind the bar, looked up in surprise. Garth sat at the same table where they'd played cards—he'd obviously been speaking, but had stopped mid-sentence at her hasty entry. With him were the man with short white hair and...Jack the pirate...

She was suddenly more than a little self-conscious. She was sweating, her dress was torn in several places near the hem, and dirty to boot. Her hair was a mess and she was breathing as if she'd just run a mile—and she had.

"Grace?" Lena had rounded the end of the bar and was hurrying to her.

"I...I..." she stammered, not sure of what to say.

"What's ailin' ye', miss?" Garth asked, his brow wrinkled in concern. It suddenly hit her—the gravity of what she'd just done.

"Oh...I'm in a hell of a lot of trouble," she walked to the table, swaying a little, thensank into the empty chair between Jack and Garth and rested her head in her hands for a moment. _What the hell am I going to do?  _She ran her right hand through the tangled mass of dark brown curls then looked up at Garth.

"I'm Grace, I'm a friend of Grey. I...I'm running from...from these two men...I...I really need some help..." her voice was desperation mixed with an imploring tone and a sudden, extreme weariness that melted all the way through her. "Do any of you know how I can get...I don't know...Just away from here?"

The three men stared at her for a moment, surprised. Jack was the first to speak.

"Well, I've got a ship..."

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Author's Note:  I hope you enjoyed the second installment!  Now comes the actual story.^_^  Don't worry—Will and Elizabeth will have a better go of it in the next chapter.  I really think Grace might be dense, though—she's no doubt heard plenty of tales about Jack Sparrow and she just can't quite connect the dots…-_-;;

Thanks to Crimson Angel, ElfPilot, Cassi, and Silver for your kind reviews!  I'm glad all of you liked the first chapter and I hope this installment is up to snuff.^_^

I forgot to stick the disclaimer in the first chapter, I'll have to add it tomorrow…eh…today.^_^;;  Anyway, I do not own any of the characters from the _Pirates of the Caribbean_, including, but not necessarily limited to, Will Turner, Elizabeth Swan and (Captain!) Jack Sparrow.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle Of Rum

"I've got a ship..."

"That's terrible bad luck, Cap'n," the white-haired man cut in. Jack gave a sigh of exasperation.

"Aye, an' I leave it to ye to tell Anna Maria," he said, still looking at Grace.

"Well, I'm sure Will an' 'Lizbeth would take 'er in," the white-haired man said with a touch of a scowl. Grace blinked, trying to decide whether or not she'd heard the man right.

"You...know Will and Elizabeth?" she asked, her eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

"Of course we know Will an' his girl. They should be here any minute," Jack said, leaning back in his chair and glancing at the door. Relief washed over Grace—she was sure the pair would help her find a way out of this mess. Then the gears started turning in her head—why should she be surprised that pirates knew the couple? After all the stories they'd told...She blinked and took a long hard look at Jack, which wasn't the most pleasant thing to do—the ache in her head was right behind her eyes and it felt as though they were trying to push their way out of her skull.

"Wait a minute...You're Jack Sparrow!" she cried, taking all three men and Lena by surprise. Jack's eyes went wide for a moment as he and the chair went over backwards and hit the floor with a crash and a thump.

"That's _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, actually," he called from the floor before rolling off the chair and picking himself—and it—up. "An' the mangy sailors beside ye are Gibbs and Cooper." Neither of the men looked terribly offended at being referred to as 'mangy', but Grace didn't notice. Her mouth was agape and she was staring at Jack with a look one-part shock, one-part awe, and two-parts disbelief. She'd been playing cards with this man just hours ago. How could she not have realized who he must be? Like the day when she first ran into Elizabeth (in quite the literal sense), she again felt incredibly stupid. She was startled out of her reverie when a mug thunked on the table before her. Lena had placed before her a steaming mug of..._something_.

"It's a local remedy, it might help your head," the barmaid told her, gesturing to the brew.

"Why'd she need 'elp wit 'er 'ead?" Garth asked, giving Lena a quizzical look. Beside him, the man called Gibbs had an equally puzzled expression--only Jack seemed to know what she was talking about. The woman blinked, then the realization hit her--none of the men knew it was Grace who'd drunk herself silly the night before.

"Ah...well..." she began, not quite sure of what to say.

"What she _means_ to say is that the lass is under so much stress, her noggin' must be in a little pain, isn't that right, lovely?" Jack cut in, sitting back down in the now-upright chair and smiling at Grace. "Bottoms up, love." She raised an eyebrow along with the mug and sniffed the brew. It smelled a little foul, but was nowhere near as bad as the concoction Mrs. James had whipped up when she'd taken ill three years ago. She took a deep breath and downed about half of it in one go. She moved it away from her mouth as she finished swallowing and wiped her mouth where a thin stream of the stuff had started to make its way down her chin. As she raised the mixture to her lips again, ready to finish it off, Garth's voice broke the silence.

"'Ave we met before, missy? Ye seem familiar but I can't quite place ye." She nearly choked on the sip she'd just taken.

"No, sir," she said, hastily swallowing. "I don't think we have."

"Well," Jack was rubbing his hands together as he spoke. "Dear Will and Elizabeth seem to be a bit late. Why don't you two go see if you can find them?  They may be able to help the young miss better than we can."

"Aye, Cap'n," Gibbs said, standing. Garth glanced up at him, then at the captain before following suit.

"Aye, Jack. Not a bad idea, they may've got themselves sidetracked," Garth said, walking after Gibbs to the door. Then, after a single backward glance and a confused shake of the head, he was gone. Grace looked around, only to find that Lena had deserted her and she was now alone with the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.

"Now," he said, rubbing his chin. "I'm not quite sure why ye enjoy gettin' yerself drunk off yer arse, Grey—sa, but I'm willin' to overlook that just now." She blushed and suddenly became quite interested in a large black knot in the tabletop. "But I _am_ curious as to just who ye are, who yer runnin' from and who's after ye—not to mention why.  And what lengths ye're willing to go to get away," he spoke quickly, without pause, but after the first sentence his voice had lost a little of its harshness.

She took a deep breath and looked up. His dark eyes were regarding her calmly, his hands interlocked before him. She drew her own hands across the table, feeling the grooves, trying to decide what to tell him. _'Truth is the safest lie'_, she remembered Mrs. James telling her time after time. She bit her lip, wondering what would happen to the old woman. That decided her in the end—if she told the truth, perhaps he'd help her get a message to the old woman that she was safe and help the maid get away from her father. She had a feeling that her father's rage would soon turn on her caretaker—if it hadn't already.

"Well," she began. "My father arranged a marriage for me several years ago, to this horrible man..." suddenly the whole story was spilling out like water rushing through a broken dam—she had no way to stop herself. She told him about how she'd snuck about at the manor, doing things her father would fail to deem appropriate. About how much she'd loved sailing to Port Royale, in spite of the fact that it was bringing her closer to the fate of marrying Brody Fenton. She spoke of how she bumped into Elizabeth on the street and she'd become friends with the woman and her fiancée. She even smiled a little when she told him about her fencing lessons from Will—his lips curved upward as well, in some secret amusement he found in Will's sword work. She recounted some of her best adventures in _The Tattered Rose_, that she'd first done it just to see what it was like and had kept coming back because of the freedoms it offered—from her father and her sex. Her hands began to shake when she talked about her encounters with Brody and the most unpleasant turn they'd taken recently and continued to do so as she related what had transpired that very morning.

"I...I just don't know what to do anymore. I don't know what I was thinking, running out like that," she felt the sharp hint of water in her eyes and tried blinking them away. "I can't go back now. He's killed women before, in London. Once he's got himself a son what need is there of a wife? And while I'm still alive..." she reached up to rub hers eyes, trying to dissuade the tears she didn't want. She was tired and drained—it really hadn't been a very good day at all. _Look at me now_, _pouring my stupid little heart out to a _pirate _for God's sake._

Jack had listened silently to the girl's story.  He was nursing a hangover of his own, but without any help from Lena's bloody brew, and he found it easier not to do much speaking at such times.  Besides, the girl had a nice enough voice.  Her accent was interesting—the traditional dialect of well-off British struggling against the slang she'd used as "Grey".  Her voice was an alto pitch, not even as high as Elizabeth's—though Elizabeth's voice often had a shrill, accusatory ring whenever she was addressing him.  It was easy to listen as he began seriously considering the woman's situation.  He noticed that she simply became more distressed as she told her story, but knew that she should probably get it off her chest anyway. He really wasn't very good with women. Well, he was, but usually the ones he was trying to woo into bed and definitely not the types that were angry at him or sitting in front of him crying—and while the lass was trying her damnedest not to break into tears, it was close enough to make him a bit uneasy (sobbing women usually ended up getting angry and slapping him, after all).

He took a close look at the girl. Aside from the fact that her face was turning blotchy and red, she was a pretty little thing. Her hair was a long, wild mass of chocolate curls; her skin (at least the parts that weren't red and blotchy) wasn't the pale white of most upper-class girls, but a light, creamy tan. Her only piece of jewelry was a silver ring on her right hand ring finger with a rose crafted out of the silver on top. Her nails weren't short, but they were chipped and broken in several places. Earlier, he'd noticed the calluses on her palm—she wasn't lying about the sword work. Her dress was simple, a light blue color that reminded him of a clear sky and, he noticed, she filled it out quite well. Her thin lips were a glossy reddish color—rouge of some sort, he supposed. A sprinkle of freckles across her small nose was still visible through the redness of her skin. Her eyes, however, were something else entirely, though. Bright blue orbs the color of the sea were hidden beneath her long lashes. He'd seen intelligence in them the night before, and a quick sense of humor in her manner.  He liked her, but he wasn't sure he wanted to get his hands dirty with this kind of dispute.

She hiccupped loudly, startling him. Her gaze had sunk to her lap and she was sniffling heavily, trying to stop her nose from running. He silently took a deep breath and placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her—or at least get her to stop crying.

Grace was staring at the blue material in her lap. It really was a pretty color, after all. She'd never really liked the dress before, but it was the one Mrs. James had picked out for her this morning and that gave it some sort of sentimental attachment. She felt a sudden weight on her shoulder and looked up to see that Jack had his hand there.

"Ye've told me the _who_ and the _why_, missy and all that, lovey, but how far are ye goin' to go to solve yer problems?" she met his gaze—his face was serious, his eyes quiet. She bit her lip. She wasn't really sure how far she could go. She did know one thing, though—she didn't want to be within arm's reach of Brody Fenton ever again. That made up her mind.

"I'll go as far as it takes," she said, her voice as steady as she could make it.

"Well, that's good," he replied quickly, looking a little relieved. He patted her shoulder awkwardly, then leaned back in his chair (careful to keep all four of its feet on the floor this time).

"What do you think I should do?" she asked, suddenly feeling very adrift with no idea of where she was headed next.

"Well, I think ye should get the hell out of Port Royale before ye're swine of a b'trothed starts askin' around," he told her bluntly.

"You've got a ship," she said, not realizing that her eyes were beginning to relax and her tears beginning to fade. "How much would you charge me for passage?"

"I've got a _pirate_ ship lass. Not a passenger vessel," he said matter-of-factly. At her scowl, he added a hasty, "How much've ye got?" She thought for a moment, reflecting on everything she could remember about pirates. She grinned wickedly and stood, walking quickly to the bar. Jack's eyes followed her back as he continued to ponder the strange behavior of women in general.

"Lena!" she yelled and the woman appeared in after several thumping steps on the wooden floor of the storeroom behind the bar. She whispered quietly to the woman, who smiled before disappearing back into the storeroom. Grace returned to her seat and, leaning forward slightly, she addressed the pirate.

"I know more than just a bit about how a ship works and I'm a quick learner. I could work my way to whatever port you think would be a good place to leave me. I could even dress as a boy—nobody here noticed I was really a girl, after all," she proposed.

"_I_ noticed," he reminded her pointedly.

"Well, _you're _Captain Jack Sparrow. Nothing gets past a man of such keen observation," she smiled, buttering the man up as much as she could. "Besides, I'm not that bad a cook."

Lena reappeared, a dusty green bottle in her hands. She set it down at the table in front of her young friend, a grin on her face. Jack regarded the bottle with definite interest (alcohol was far easier to understand than women, after all).

"What's this?" he asked, his voice light.

"_This_ is a bottle of the finest red wine dated 1478," she told him. If he'd been a horse, she mused, his ears would have just pricked up. "That's about two-hundred years, Captain Sparrow. I'll throw that in to help pay for my passage."

"How do I know ye're tellin' the truth?" he asked and she passed him the bottle. He studied the label before nodding. "How'd ye ever get yer hands on this?"

Grace smiled up at Lena and the woman smiled back.

"That's _our_ little secret," the barmaid told him with a smirk.  He glanced from woman to woman, then locked eyes with Grace and leaned toward her, a plan coming together in his mind.

"All right, love.  This is what's going to happen," his voice had taken on a slightly jovial tone and he laid the agreement out quickly, talking with his hands as well as his lips.  "_I'm_ going to let you play pirate until we reach port at Tortuga.  _You're _going to pretend you're Grey, thief-turned-pirate, and you're also going to let me have that lovely dress you're wearing.  Once we reach Tortuga, _you_ disappear into the raucous crowd and _I_ sail off into the sunset and make sure your father and fiancée never come looking for you.  _Savvy_?" he cocked his head to the side as he asked, a slight gleam in his eye.  Grace blinked in surprise.  She'd heard more than a little about Captain Jack Sparrow and this didn't really seem to be his kind of deal.  As far as she could see, there wasn't anything in it for him besides a bottle of rum and a muddy and torn blue dress.  She nodded warily.

"Aye, we have an accord," she told him in her "Grey" voice, holding out a hand.  He smiled his lopsided smile and shook it firmly.

"That's the spirit,"

The door opened and all three of the pub's occupants turned to see Will enter with Elizabeth, Gibbs and Garth at their heels.

"Grace!" Elizabeth cried. "What happened? Your father came to my house looking for you—that's why we're late. Will was still waiting for me at the smithy when these two showed up," she jerked her head toward the pair of sailors.

"I'm all right, don't worry," Grace replied with a reassuring smile. "I think the winds are changing for the better," she glanced at Jack, who raised the bottle and tipped it toward her.

"Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, lassie," he said with the cock-eyed grin that clearly showed the gold tooth in his mouth.  Grace nodded back at him, then began to laugh.

            The rest of the company—aside from Lena—looked from face to face in confusion.

* * *

UPDATE:  (7/24)  I went to PotC again last night (that'd be one reason chapter four is later than I'd hoped—gomen nasai .;;).  I needed to get away from the smell of sawdust and take another gander at Jack.^_^;;  The result is a few minor changes and additions and one MAJOR addition.  Most of it is in regard to Jack and his speech and scattered throughout.  There's also a big chunk in the first paragraph from Jack's POV.  The major addition is right after Lena's "That's _our_ little secret" spiel (well, it isn't really a spiel, I just like that word).  It's not very long, but it's important.

Author's Note:  I hope this chapter is to everyone's liking—sorry it's a bit on the short side (you know those little wood things that go on the wall next to the floor?  I was helping put those on—I hate remodeling .).  I'm not quite sure I've got Jack completely in character (Gomen nasai! .;;), I may come back to this chapter and change some things after I see the movie again (or get my hands on the junior novelization, because there's * sob * not an adult version).  Didn't quite get Elizabeth and Will into this chapter…characters always have their own ideas about where the story's going, after all, and sometimes it's better not to argue with them. ^_-

A note about the rum—I took a bit of a liberty by putting the rum in a bottle.  Rum doesn't age correctly in glass containers, so most companies age rum in wooden barrels.

Thanks to everyone who commented on the first two chapters!  I'm glad the first two chapters were enjoyable for you.^_^

Willowish made a great observation—I was a little worried about that myself.  I'm going to use the "drunken old men don't have the best memories" excuse.^_^;;

Disclaimer:  See the first chapter for a disclaimer regarding PotC.  _Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum_ is probably copyrighted to the estate of Robert Louis Stevenson, but I'm not 100% on that one.  Just be sure that that phrase isn't mine. ^_-

If you've never heard the song, I suggest finding a copy by the Jolly Rogers.  They're an awesome pirate group who make a yearly trip to the local Renaissance Faire (they also perform at the Kansas City Faire every year).  There's a link to their page on my website—I can't remember the URL off the top of my head or I'd post it here. .

Thanks for reading!^_^


	4. Grasping Freedom

AUTHOR'S BRIEF NOTE ABOUT THE THIRD CHAPTER-  Heylo everyone!  I made a few minor changes in the third chapter, mostly to Jack character and speech.  Anyhow, I added a paragraph after Lena's "That's our secret" spiel about where the wine came from.  It's not essential to the story, but it might give you a clue what Jack's up to. ^_-

* * *

            Grace was beginning to feel much better.  She wasn't quite certain whether it was the odd brew Lena had given her, her embarrassing rant to Jack, or something else entirely, but whatever it was had diminished the headache and nausea to a point where she hardly noticed them when she stood.

            "I have to leave Port Royale," she said, only really speaking to Elizabeth and her husband-to-be.  She felt a lump form in her throat as the words slipped out.  She hadn't really considered what leaving meant.  It meant no more shopping trips on crowed streets with Elizabeth and no more lessons in swordsmanship from Will.  She wouldn't hear any more pirate tales from the pair (though she had a feeling pirate tales themselves weren't at all out of the picture) and she wouldn't get to tell them the rest of that story about how she taught her colt to bow.  There would be no more pleasant dinners with Elizabeth and her father, no more lunches with her friends at random pubs they found in the city.  Sneaking out to visit _The Tattered Rose_ in the middle of the night was most definitely out of the question.  She'd leave behind Garth, Lena and all of those tavern patrons who were fond of Grey.  Even Mrs. James wouldn't be joining her on this trip.  A pang of regret struck her and she quelled the tears that threatened to strike once more.  Leaving Port Royale was necessary.  The time for her to be a sentimental fool had passed, if there'd ever truly been a time for such folly.  The thought of leaving her old companion did jog her memory, however.

            "Somehow I have to get a message Mrs. James.  I have to let her know that I'm going to be all right," she told the pair, eyes pleading.

            "Is 'at the ole woman ye've got buyin' things in the market?" Garth asked reminding her that there were more than three people in the room.  "Always wears that black woolen thing an' 'as short, curlin' 'air?"  Grace, a little surprised, nodded at him.

            "Leave 'at tae me, then.  I see 'er pickin' up fruits most days jus' down the street," he said with a smile, glad to be helpful.

            "Thank you!" she crossed the room in a few strides and hugged him.  The startled man patted her on the back after a moment of indecision.  Grace turned after she'd nearly squeezed the breath from the man.  Elizabeth and Will were watching her, more than a little amusement visible in their eyes.  Gibbs had walked to the table and he and Jack were now conversing in low voices.

            "I'm going to miss the pair of you," she said to the couple in a quiet voice.

            "Do you really think I'm going to leave you alone with _him_?" Elizabeth asked loudly.

            "Ah," Jack ducked his head around Gibbs, raising his hand a bit.  "That might not be the best of ideas, Elizabeth darling."  The woman turned on Jack, eyes narrowed.

            "And why _not_?" she inquired, her voice full of warning.

            "Have I ever given ye any reason _not_ to trust me?" Elizabeth rolled her eyes at this.  "Everything came out in the end, didn't it?" he asked, rising to stand beside Gibbs.  Grace noticed suddenly that his black coat and hat were gone and gave a cursory glance around the room.  Not seeing them she turned back to the others.  Jack was crossing the room in his leisurely swagger, heading for Elizabeth and Will.  "Next time I'm in the neighborhood, I'll come and find ye and Will and we'll all sail off into the sunset.  On me honor as a pirate.  Ye'll just have to wait a little longer," he punctuated his speech with various hand movements, and Grace found her eyes drawn to the rapidly moving appendages.  Elizabeth gave a little 'hmph' and Will sighed.  Jack turned his attention to Grace.

            "Now, we need to get you ready to go," he said, looking her over.  "I suppose all your men's clothes are back at your little house."  She nodded.

            "I've got some things that might fit her," Will spoke up.  "Besides, if my pupil is leaving, I should probably give her birthday present to her a little early."  Grace looked at him in surprise—her eighteenth birthday was nearly six months away, why would he have gotten her something already?  Will smiled at her.

            "My effects, dear Lena," Jack said with a smile.  The barmaid rolled her eyes before ducking behind the bar and bringing out his coat and hat.  He took them from her, shoved the hat onto his head and then donned the dark coat.  He reached for the bottle and handed it to her.

"Hang on to this for me, dear," he said before turning to the others.  "Lead on, matey," Jack said to Will, gesturing to the door.  Will nodded a goodbye to Lena and started to the door, Elizabeth and a wildly waving Grace behind him.

            "Good luck, lassie," the barmaid said with a wave and a smile.  "I'm sure you'll need it…" she muttered under her breath, with a glance at Sparrow, who was trailing behind the trio with Garth and Gibbs.

            The group headed to the smithy, the pirates following at a bit of a distance.  Once all were safely inside, and the donkey had been calmed by her master (one look at Jack and she'd started to circle her pole), Will disappeared into his rooms near the back of the shop.  He returned laden with two long wooden boxes, several articles of clothing, and a worn pair of boots.  He handed the clothes—all of them older garments that were showing their age—along with the boots to Grace.

            "You can change back there," he nodded to the doorway from whence he'd just returned.

            "Right," she said, cradling the fabric in her arms as she picked her way across the dirt floor.  The boots knocked against her skirt, muddying it even more.  She ducked into the spare room, dropped the boots on the floor and set the clothes on the bed.  She pulled the blue dress over her head and tossed it onto the bed beside Will's clothes, then did the same with her shift.  She pulled on the shirt and pants, glad to find that the shirt was loose enough not to draw attention to her chest.  She pulled the tan vest he'd given her on over the shirt—it, too, had a loose enough fit not to call too much attention.  She smiled as she tied the rag-tag faded blue sash around her waist, hoping it would help keep the slightly too large pants she wore from abandoning her.  Next she pulled on the boots—also too big.  She'd begun to glance about the room, wondering what to do (loose boots aren't good for running), when her eyes fell upon the discarded shift.  Sparrow'd never mentioned anything about wanting the shift…She grinned wickedly as she tore several strips from the garment's hem, then stuffed them into the toes of the boots.  Her hair was the final bit she bothered with.  She reached up and violently ruffled the dark curls, twisting them further here, drawing them out to make them appear as straight as she could there.  When she was satisfied, she tore a strip from the sash's end and used it to tie her hair in a loose tail.  She looked down at herself, pleased with the feel of the comfortable—if threadbare—cloth against her skin.

            In the front room, Jack was regarding the wooden box Will held out to him with curiosity, his eyebrows raised.  He took it with great care, studying the dark case.

            "Well?  Aren't you going to open it?" the young blacksmith asked impatiently.  Without looking up, the pirate unhooked the simple clasp and opened the box.  Laid carefully inside was a sheathed sword.  The hilt was simple enough, though a band of real gold spiraled up the grip.  He lifted the sword, balancing the box for a moment in his other hand until Will took it back.  He drew the blade, glad to feel a nearly perfect balance—Will was very good at what he did.  It was a bit of a shame, really, that he wanted to turn pirate.  Then again, he wasn't a bad pirate, either.  He sheathed the sword and smiled at his young friend.

            "And whatever might the occasion be?" he asked.

            "It's my thanks, for helping me save Elizabeth," he said solemnly.  Jack nodded.

            "Me thanks, Will.  This may be the finest blade I've ever set my hands on," he replied.  The young man practically swelled with pride.

            "Now, why is it you don't want us joining you?  We've been ready to leave at a moment's notice for two months, ever since we got your message.  Now you turn up and tell us we're going to be left behind _again_," Elizabeth was giving him a stern look.

            "You'll see why soon enough, darling," he said, jabbing a hand in her direction.  "For now, you'll just have to _trust me_," he continued, his eyes imploring.  This did nothing but give Elizabeth more cause to roll her eyes.

            "_Fine_," she assented ruefully.

            "How do I look?" Grace asked, making her way back into the room, dress and shift thrown over her right shoulder.  Jack reviewed her carefully.  The clothes were old—no problems there.  Indeed, everything about the outfit spoke of use and age.  Aside from her being a little too clean, she'd pass off just fine.  Beside him there was a sharp intake of breath.

            "I 'ad me suspicions, but I ne'er really believed it," Garth was staring at the young woman.  Suddenly, he began to laugh a deep, hearty laugh as though he'd just been let in on a wonderfully entertaining joke.  "Ye're a smart lass, I'll give ye that!"  Grace, Jack saw, was smiling, a slight blush creeping into her cheeks.

            "Grace," Will said, picking the second box up from where he'd set it on the floor.  "This was going to be your eighteenth birthday present, now we'll just call it a 'going-away' present, eh?" he pulled back the lid so she could see the sword within.  Her face lit up in delight.

            "You really didn't have to," she began to protest.

            "You've done enough around here that I think you deserve it," Will smiled.  "Besides, you'll probably need it."

            With great care, she took the weapon from its resting place.  It was very similar to Jack's own new toy, but the hilt was inlaid with silver instead of gold.  She drew it with a ring of steel and slashed through the air so fast he heard the blade sing.  The girl had her back to them now, but when she turned he was pleased to find a look of absolute joy.  She replaced the weapon in its sheath and threw her arms around Will's neck.

            "Thank you so much, Will!" she said, looking as though she could dance a jig.  Jack grinned.

            "Well," he said, drawing everyone's attention.  "I have one _minor_ piece of business to take care of and then we can all be on our way.  Except for you two," he gestured at Will and Elizabeth.  "Now, I think it's best that all of you _stay here_ and avoid doing anything _stupid_," he gave Will a long hard look.  "Except…Coop, would you be ever so kind as to help me with what I'm about to do?" he was already turning to the door.

            "Aye, Sparrow, I'll 'elp ye," Garth replied, and the two were gone in a flash of light from the open door.

            Grace sighed.  Captain Sparrow and Garth had been gone for nearly an hour now.  She and Will had gone through a friendly bout after they left—she'd been very eager to try out her new blade.  It had been close, but Will had caught her right side open and "killed" her.  She now sat on the ground beside the donkey, her right hand clutching Will's present, her left scratching the donkey behind her ear.  Will was catching up with Gibbs, and Elizabeth had disappeared into Will's room about five minutes ago.  She'd laid the dress and now-ruined shift on a vacant stool.  Until a few weeks before she'd arrived, Will had been an apprentice here.  The old blacksmith had apparently gotten himself a little _too_ drunk one night and met a bad end in a dark alley.  He didn't seem sorely missed.

            Footfalls behind her told her Elizabeth was approaching and she turned as much as she could to see her.  The older woman knelt beside Grace, clutching something tightly in her fist.

            "Give me your hand," she said, her mouth solemn, her eyes sparkling with delight.  Grace took her hand off the donkey and did as she was told—her friend dropped something light into it.  It rattled as it exchanged hands.  She raised it up to get a better look at it.  The object was a bracelet and hanging from it were all manner of coins, beads and even seashells.  It jingled as she moved her hand, making her smile.

            "I was saving this for you birthday, but I think now's just as good a time," Elizabeth said, taking it back and circling it about the younger woman's right wrist before clasping it.

            "It's wonderful," Grace said, feeling the lump rise in her throat again.  She felt horrible about leaving the couple.  They were the first friends she'd made that were anywhere near her age and she would miss them dearly.  "I feel horrible—I didn't get either of you anything."

            "You can avoid marrying that foul pig Brody and that's present enough for me any day," Elizabeth grinned, tousling the girl's hair.

            The door creaked open and everyone looked up.  Jack and Garth had finally returned.

            "All set?" Jack asked quickly.  Grace had barely nodded before he was reaching down to help her up.  "Then let's get out of here."

            She took his hand—it was rough and damp with sweat.  He easily pulled her to her feet.  Beside her, Elizabeth rose as well.  Jack scooped the dress and shift up and threw them over his shoulder.  They said their farewells quickly and Grace found them difficult to remember later on.  She did remember, however, that she, Jack and Gibbs were making their way through the crowded streets far too soon for her liking.  It was perhaps an hour or two after noon, she judged by the sun.  Had she really been fleeing her father and Brody only five hours before?  The three of them slipped through the crowd easily, Jack's guiding hand on her shoulder most of the way.  It didn't take her long to realize they were headed _away_ from the docks.

            "Jack," she said in a hushed voice.

            "Yes, love?" he replied in a whisper, not tearing his gaze from the street.

            "Where are we going?"

            "The ship, of course, where else?"

            "Right, then," she said, deciding not to press the matter.  The Captain Jack Sparrow in Will's tales always had a plan.  The Captain Jack Sparrow in Elizabeth's stories was sometimes a different matter, however…Her hand found its way to the hilt of the sword, which she'd tucked through her sash, bracelet jingling all the more for it.  She missed the pair already.

            The crowds on the street began to diminish and it wasn't long before they were out of the city entirely.  In the year that Grace had lived in Port Royale, she'd never ventured here, into the outskirts of the city.  Soon they were making their way along a secluded trail roofed in palm trees, not a building in sight.  Gibbs led the way, Grace behind him and Jack bringing up the rear.  The ground beneath her feet slowly became sandier, and they emerged from the shade of the palms onto a small white beach.  The sight took her breath away.  The green bushes and trees gave way to the impeccable white of the sun-bleached sand and tall cliffs fenced the beach to the right and left.  Before her was the vast Caribbean sea, a pure, jovial blue that matched the sky and called to her, begging her to dash through the waves.

            "Come on, lovey," Jack patted her back; she'd stopped right in front of him without even realizing it.  She looked up to see him gazing at the sea, a broad smile on his weathered face.  She now noticed the boat that had been pulled far onto shore—nearly to the tree line.  Gibbs was already beginning to push it toward the waves that lapped the shore and she followed Jack to help them with it.  She glanced often at the sea as she walked, and suddenly a dark shape became visible around one of the cliffs.  As she kept walking, the shape became further visible and resolved itself into a ship.  She heard her own sharp intake of breath and an almost silent chuckle from the pirate captain.

            "_That's _the _Black Pearl_," he said quietly.  Her lips formed a silent 'O' that Jack never saw—her back was to him.  Bringing herself to her senses, she jogged after Jack, who had thrown the dress into the boat and was already helping Gibbs push the rowboat.  The three of them made a trail from tree line to shoreline, pushing and pulling the small vessel to the water.  With a final push and a subdued splash the boat hit water.  Gibbs crawled over the side and sat down, picking up the oars as he did so.

            "In ye go," Jack told her.  She was now up to her knees in water.  She gave a little hop and tried to pull herself over the side—to no avail.  Jack gave her a look that said, 'Hurry up, we haven't got all damn day,' and she gave another little hop.  This time she was successful—mostly because Jack had given her rump a push.  She felt the boat give a little wiggle and Jack was in the boat behind her.  The vessel was a little off-balanced, she mused as Gibbs began to row from his place on the center seat, but in little danger of capsizing.  The lap of the oars hitting the water drew her attention from the boat upward and her eyes immediately found the ship.  They were on their way now.

            The thought occurred to her quite abruptly.  She was in a boat, headed out to sea.  She was out of her father's grasp and the impending dread of her wedding.  She was finally _free_—all of the time now, not just when she slipped out of the house in the middle of the night.  She was suddenly giddy beyond belief, looking around and grinning at everything she saw.  As the ship slowly became both larger and closer, her stomach began to roil with nerves.  She was about to board a pirate ship.  Excitement fought with the butterflies in her stomach as wondered what, exactly, she'd be doing on the journey to Tortuga.

            As they neared the ship, she saw that those aboard were scurrying about, already rigging it to sail.  She heard a voice shouting orders, the echoed 'aye!'s of the crew, the hollow pounding of feet on the deck, as well as bawdy laughter of the men on board.  Before long, she was looking _up_ at the ship.  They had reached the _Black Pearl_.

* * *

Yipes!  Sorry I was so late getting this chapter out.  I spent most of the day yesterday staring at a mostly blank screen, wondering which direction I should take.  Thankfully I got over that little spat.^_^  I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far and I hope this chapter is just as (or perhaps more) enjoyable than the last few.  Now that they've reached the ship, things should get a bit more interesting, eh?^_^  A great big bear hug and 'THANK YOU' to everybody who's reviewed.  It's nice to know that someone besides my mother and I are enjoying this piece.^_^;;

Havoc raised a question—did rum exist in the 1400's?  Nope.  Didn't do enough homework on that bottle.-_-;;  Anyway, from what I've found, rum was first refined by a priest living in the West Indies, Father Labat.  The priest took sick and a clerk gave him a local remedy of alcohol and sugarcane called Kaniche, which supposedly helped him recover.  After his recovery, Labat spent several years studying and refining the beverage until a new drink had been born.  That drink was rum.  The date was probably around 1700.  Anyway, the bottle in our tale is now red wine.^-^

Thanks for reading!^_-


	5. Gold in the Palm

            A young man, he looked not a day over sixteen, stood staring as the trio boarded the ship.  Grace noticed immediately that his lower lip was bloodied and red, his left eye was puffy and fading slowly from black, and his clothes were dirty and tattered—even for a pirate.  He grasped the wooden handle of a mop with both hands, gazing—more than a little awestruck—at Jack.  A quick glance around the ship told her that the rest of the crew was in much better condition and she found herself wondering why this lad would be any different.  She didn't wonder for long, however.  The gentle rocking of the ship proved to be quite a distraction—Grace hadn't quite gotten her sea legs yet.  She fought, not only to keep her balance, but to look as though she'd spent every day of her life on a ship.  Somewhere deep inside she knew it was foolish—"Grey" hadn't spent much time on the ocean, after all—but she couldn't help wanting to impress these people for some reason.  Or to, at least, not look the fool in front of them.  She made a silent pact with herself—she was a pirate now (for the time being, anyhow), so she would _not_ cry, scream, complain, or do anything terribly _stupid_ (as she suddenly seemed quite prone to).  She was so preoccupied with keeping her steps steady that she almost didn't hear the steps coming their way.  She looked up just in time to something that startled her almost enough to make her fall.  The woman standing before them had chocolate skin and dark, shining hair that hung loose under a broad hat.  Her pants were nearly black, as were her boots.  Both contrasted with the white shirt that was billowing softly in the breeze.  She wore a bright red sash under a well-kept black belt that held a sword.  _No…That's not a sword.  It's too short_, Grace thought, peering at it.

            "Welcome back, Cap'n.  We're nearly ready to make way," the woman's voice seemed thick to Grace's ears, but easy to listen to.  "What 'ave we 'ere?" the woman was giving her a curious look and Grace felt herself pale a little.  She was only just beginning to realize how much she wanted these people to like her.  Maybe if they liked her, she could stay on after Tortuga—this woman was a pirate, after all, why couldn't she be one?  She clamped down on such foolish thoughts immediately.  She doubted that Jack would be very keen on that idea (especially if she had to cook anything—she'd been lying about the good cook bit).

            "This lad has bartered passage to Tortuga.  I was thinking he'd make a good cabin boy for so long, but it seems that job's been filled," though she couldn't see Jack's face, she thought she heard a touch of warning in his voice as he nodded to the rag-tag boy.

            "'E jus' washed up on the beach this mornin', Jack.  'Alf-drowned and terrible scared.  Seems 'is pa was beatin' 'im.  'E begged to stay on—especially after he figured out this was the _Pearl_.  Thinks ye're an 'ero, that one, Jack," she said, eyes cool and voice hushed.  Jack let out a long sigh.

            "Well, Tortuga's not far.  I s'pose we can always use the help.  Besides, Grey's supposed to be a good cook," he replied, clapping Grace on the shoulder.  She felt her face get paler, but nodded enthusiastically.  "Ah, I forget my manners.  Grey, this be Anamaria," he gestured to the pirate woman.  "Anamaria, this little scamp is Grey, a thief who needed to leave town."  The woman gave her a careful once-over before nodding.

            "Cap'n," it was Gibbs, who had parted ways with them upon boarding.  "We're ready ta' sail."

            "Then, by all means, let's haul anchor.  Before Norrington gets wind that we're 'ere," Jack said turning to survey the crew with his now-familiar cockeyed grin.  There was a sudden burst of activity, during which Grace found herself following Jack down the length of the ship and up a short flight of stairs.

            "Now," Jack spoke quietly.  "You jus' keep out of the way for a bit.  When we hit open water ye'll either help the cook or help that boy swab, aye?" he ran a caressing hand over the great wooden wheel before glancing back at her.  She stood at his right-hand, keeping one eye on the sailors and the other on the wheel.

            "Aye, Cap'n," she replied, bowing her head.  The gold-flecked grin widened in amusement.

            "That's the spirit," he said, turning his gaze to what was going on below them.  Grace was rather pleased with herself—she was starting to get the hang of moving with the ship (though she was a bit afraid of her walk turning out similar to Jack's on land) and she'd made the captain grin.  _Why, exactly, should I be concerned with whether or not he's grinning? _asked a sensible voice within her.  She was given a reprieve from having to answer herself by footsteps making their way up the stairs.  It was the rag-tag boy from earlier.  He paused at the top of the stairs, looking wide-eyed at Jack, who sent a cool glace back at him.

            "What's yer name, boy?" he asked.

            "Me name's Michael Bailey, sir," he said after a moment.  "But mos' people jus' call me Bail or Bailey."

            "Well, Bailey, what makes ye think ye've got the salt to be a pirate?"  Grace could see the boy biting his already-swollen lip.

            "Me ma' always said I was a good worker.  An' I'll do anythin', sir.  Please," the boy's eyes were pleading, but Jack's gaze lingered on the men raising the anchor.

            "Can ye swim?" he asked after a moment.

            "Aye.  A little," the boy replied, seeming a bit more confident.

            "An' ye' can swab a deck and follow orders?" Jack continued.

            "Aye, sir!" the boy was nodding empathically now.

            "Well stay out of the way until we're in open water, then ye can go back to swabbin', savvy?"

            "Aye, sir!" Bailey seemed overjoyed as he stepped closer to take a place beside Grace.  Another glance to the side told her that he didn't have any weapons.  She also saw that he wasn't steady on the boat, either.  She pondered just what had brought him to the _Pearl_ as she watched Anamaria give orders to the men below.

            Elizabeth had worked herself into a bit of a state.  She, Will and Coop had spent quite some time talking in the smithy before the ageing man had gone to find Grace's maid.  Now it was just Will and herself—Will bending a piece of steel to his will, Elizabeth pacing up and down the shop.

            "I just can't figure out what that man has in his head," she said loudly, so her beloved could hear her over the din of the bellows.

            "I'm sure he's got something in mind," Will replied.

            "I know!" she said, giving a grimace.  "I would just feel much better if I knew what he was up to.  That's all."

            "We'll probably find out soon enough," he told her before the hiss of hot steel in water cut off the opportunity for conversation.  Elizabeth heaved a sigh.  She was already missing Grace.  Not to mention worrying about her.  The girl was aboard the _Black Pearl_ with none other than Jack Sparrow.  Jack, she knew, didn't usually do things out of the kindness of his heart.  He didn't put a hand into anything unless he came out with gold in the palm—and for the life of her, she couldn't figure out where the gold was coming from in this case.  A loud pounding on the shop's door drew her attention away from the puzzle.  Before either she or Will could get to the door, it was open and Brody Fenton was standing within the shade of the entrance.  Inwardly she shuddered.  Now _there_ was a scoundrel.  Silly as it would seem to most, she trusted Jack with her friend far more than she trusted Brody with the girl.

            "Good to see you Master Fenton," Will had stopped what he was doing to turn and greet the man.  He wiped several beads of sweat from his brow before stepping forward to stand beside Elizabeth.

            "Yes, yes," he said a bit dismissively.  "Have you seen dear Grace?  Her father and I have reason to believe she's in a great bit of trouble."

            "I'm afraid not," Elizabeth spoke first.  "What kind of trouble?  Do you think she's all right?" she scrunched up her brows in a look of concern.

            "Her father received a letter not long ago.  It claims that she's been captured by pirates—they're holding her for ransom," the man strolled further into the shop.  Elizabeth was surprised to see that he looked genuinely concerned—whether it was for his fiancée or his money, she couldn't be sure.

            "Pirates?!" Will's voice was raised in alarm.  "What manner of filthy scum would dare to kidnap her?"

            "The note is signed by a 'Captain Grant', I'm not sure who he could be, but he's threatened to kill Grace if he doesn't receive the ransom.  Frankly, I'm at a loss.  What is one to do at such a time?" he looked imploring from Will to Elizabeth.

            "Perhaps Commodore Norrington would be better suited to help?" she suggested.  After a few moments of hesitation the large man nodded with resignation.

            "I suppose you're quite right," he said, turning his back to them and walking slowly to the door.  "If you see her," he glanced back.  "Please send her home."  Then the door was shut and the pair was alone once more.  They stood motionless for a minute or two, then looked at each other.  Elizabeth felt herself shaking with silent laughter.  At least she now had _some_ idea of what that scalawag was up to.

            Jack breathed deeply, glad to be back at the helm of the _Pearl_.  The salty sea air filled his lungs, a refreshing sensation that he'd been deprived of in the tavern of the previous night.  Before him was the deck and beyond that the bright rolling blue of the sea stretched out to the horizon.  _This_, he was sure, was the only way to live.  And the Caribbean seemed to be the best place to do it.  He'd been all around the world—or most of the way around it, at any rate.  Of all the waters he'd sailed, this sea, with its vibrant cerulean waves, was his favorite.  His eyes dipped back to the deck to take in the crew.  Those that were above decks were either working or staring out at the ocean.  High above, he knew one of them would be keeping watch from the crow's nest.  This would probably be a relaxed voyage.  Then they'd sail back to Port Royale, he'd take the gold Grace's dear old da left for her ransom and leave that blue dress he'd gotten from her.  He'd given the thing to Gibbs to take down to cookie, who'd do his best to spill come chicken blood on it.  It all worked out.  Grace would be rid of that Fenton character, he'd get a few pieces of eight for his trouble, and—best of all—he wouldn't have to listen to any more chickens for quite some time.

            He let his gaze come to rest on the girl, who was scrubbing the deck on her hands and knees.  She seemed to be a good lass, even if she was a bit hasty in her actions.  He was almost sorry to leave her in such a port as Tortuga.  _Almost_.  Whatever happened to her after they dropped anchor was her problem—even if Elizabeth did scream at him for setting her loose in such a place.  He found himself wondering how she'd ever make it and stopped before he could get very far down that path.  She was only temporarily part of his crew, he needn't wonder about such things.  With that, he considered the other new addition.  The boy was scrappy and he had some spirit in him.  Other than that he was skin and bones covered in a few worn rags.  The boy's hair was long, matted and the color of sand.  It might take a while to get some muscle and meat on his bones and find him some new clothes, but Jack thought he'd probably make a halfway decent pirate.

            "Decidin' what kind o' boat yer goin' tae buy me?" came Anamaria's voice from behind him.

            "I already replaced your boat, Ana," he said, not taking his eyes from the two cabin boys.

            "And then it sank," she pointed out.

            "Well, _I_ wasn't in command when it sank," he retorted.

            "No, but it was _yer ship_ that sank it," she leaned on the railing beside the wheel.  He couldn't tell if she was teasing him or not—she might have actually been halfway serious.  She took a long look downward.  "What are we to do with 'em?" she asked, nodding toward Grace and Bailey.

            "We'll drop the one off in Tortuga, the other can stay," he said quietly.

            "What's the idea, sir?  Why ye' haulin' 'im to Tortuga?"

            "It will be well worth it, Anamaria," he said, sending a lopsided grin her way.  "_Very_ well worth it."  She was about to reply when a cry from above stopped her train of thought.

            "Sails!" came the yells of Moises.  Jack glanced up to see that he was pointing to starboard.  Anamaria grabbed the wheel as he reached for he glass.  He peered through, trying to find the ship.  When he did, he glanced skyward with a rueful look.

            "What is it, sir?" came Anamaria's voice from the wheel.  He turned, a slightly pained look on his face.

            "It's the bloody _Dauntless_."

* * *

This chapter's a bit on the shortish side—I apologize.  It's been a crazy week.  Hopefully, I'll be able to get the next chapter out tomorrow or Monday (and I'll double-check this one for any more errors).  Chapter the sixth will be a bit longer, I _think_—probably twice this length.^_^  Interesting happenings on the horizon for it.  I have a feeling this story might get a bit long in the tooth before I'm ready to call it finished.  There might be some slow updates in September—I need to finish and polish a writing contest entry.  Other than that, it's clear sailing (we're almost done with the remodeling and everything!).^_^

*huggles reviewers*  I'll enjoy writing this piece as long as there's people who enjoy reading it (that's what the fun of writing really is).^_^

Thanks for reading!


	6. Scheme Upon Scheme

            Swabbing, or so it seemed to Grace, ought to be in every pirate story ever told.  Any young man would think twice about running away to become a pirate if he knew just what awaited him on deck.  She'd been pushing this old splintering brush for over an hour now and the deck didn't seem to be getting much cleaner at all.  She sat up on her knees to wipe perspiration from her eyes.  This was almost as much of a workout as practicing with Will—but outside beneath the blazing sun her energy felt as though it was draining away with each drop of sweat.  She felt a stream of the stuff rolling down her back and sighed before returning to work.  Her sword thudded repeatedly against the wood as she worked, but she refused to take it off.  She _was_ on a ship full of pirates after all.  Every time she moved the brush the delightful jingle of Elizabeth's gift reminded her of what she had left behind.  She sighed.

At least the work was mindless enough to let her thoughts wander.  Jack had told her that he would make sure Brody and her father never bothered her again.  Just how was he going to do that?  She had already determined that there had to be something in it for him—not just some old bottle of wine.  Jack Sparrow didn't really seem the type to do things out of the kindness of his heart.  She pondered the situation, not noticing the unexpected change in the ship's course until the force of the turn had her face on the deck.

            She looked up to see Anamaria at the wheel and Jack at the rail of the ship, looking across the water through his scope.  She followed his line of sight and saw nothing but the horizon.  Men rushed around her, continuing to adjust the sails.  There was a great rustle as the canvas filled with the wind once again.  What was going on?

            Jack turned back to Anamaria with a smile.  He'd given the order and the ship had turned away from the _Dauntless_.  This created only one slight problem.  The ship was now going south—Tortuga was in the other direction.  It wasn't the end of the world, however—they'd just be taking a little detour.  He had two considerable options:  Sail back around the island of Jamaica to avoid Norrington and his little boat, or follow their current course for a while before turning north again with the hope that the _Dauntless_ had sailed on.  He decided on the latter option—it would take far less time, after all.  This certainly put an interesting twist in his little scheme.  The _Dauntless _was no longer in Port Royale, leaving said city unguarded.  They could slip back to Port Royale and pick up the ransom a wee bit early.  He gave Anamaria a wicked grin.

            "Cap'n Sparrow?" she asked, eyebrows raised.  "Any orders?"

            "We'll come about in an hour or so and sail back to Port Royale," he said, taking the wheel from her.

            "Aye," she said, regarding him quietly and wondering just what he was up to _this _time.

            As the hours passed, Grace found herself drowsing.  She and Bailey had scrubbed just about the entire deck.  They'd tried to make conversation to help pass the work, but that only led to several uncomfortable questions about what London was like and her supposed adventures as a thief.  As she'd only been to London a handful of times, she didn't have much to go on and suggested that they sing, instead.  Their only dilemma was that neither of them knew any sea shanties.  The sun continued to let itself fall to the sea as they worked in silence.

The ship eventually came about, and they appeared to be going in the direction from whence they'd just come.  Grace had given up any hope of figuring out what Jack had planned—she'd simply wait and watch.

            She was relaxed mentally.  The creak of the boards and the scratch of her brush's bristles against them had mixed with the rustle of the canvas and the waves crashing against the ship in such a way that it was nearly ready to put her to sleep.  Someone trodding on her freshly scrubbed planks perked her up a bit.  She glanced up to see Gibbs reviewing her work.

            "Ye kin go below decks, lads.  Ye've done enough fer t'day," he offered her a hand and she took it, grateful.  She and Bailey had flipped a coin—Bailey's only valuable, a small bronze chit—to see who would scrub and who would mop.  She'd lost and had spent the afternoon on her hands and knees.  Her leg muscles ached in protest and she stretched them out as best as she could.

            "Cookie may be wantin' some 'elp," he told her.  "I'll show ye te' the galley, and _yew_," he nodded at Bailey.  "Kin get some shut-eye."  She followed the rotund man as her led her across the deck and down a set of stair through an open hatch.  She did all right balancing as they made their way across the deck—but the stairs were a matter of trepidation.  She took her time and was rather pleased with herself when she reached the landing feet-first instead of face-first.  They went down another few steps and Gibbs led her left, toward the bow of the ship.  She looked back to see Bailey, who'd been following her, give a little wave before starting in the other direction.  They made their way across a room with tables scattered about it and into a small chamber.  The moment she crossed the threshold she became very aware of two things—an increase in temperature and a smell that she wouldn't necessarily call tantalizing.  A squat, grimy man who had a face full of wrinkles looked up at their entrance.  The room was lantern-lit and the fire cast an eerie light on the man—Cookie, she assumed.

            "Gibbs, what's 'is, eh?" he asked in a gruff voice.  "This the lad?"

            "Aye, this be 'im," Gibbs replied, slapping her on the back and pushing her forward.  Cookie gave her a measuring look—_I seem to be getting a lot of those today_, she mused.

            "'E's a little late fer t'night, but 'e'll do," Cookie said, then Gibbs was gone and she was alone with the squinting man.  "'Ow long ye on board?" he asked.

            "Until we reach Tortuga," she said, in as much of a "Grey" voice as her tired, parched throat could muster.  The man gave a little 'hmph' before turning to the stove and pulling out a couple of racks covered in freshly cooked meat.  By the feathers scatter on the floor, she judged it was chicken.

            "Give me an 'and 'ere, eh boy?" the cook beckoned her to a washtub where she scrubbed her hands.  Then she made her way over and helped him move the smoldering pieces of meat into a large metal tub, a process that woke her up quite a bit.  She helped him move it to one of the tables along with a mixed assortment of mugs and silverware.  There was already a barrel of apples in the corner of the dining room, alongside barrels of fresh water and rum.  He let her help herself to a mug of the lukewarm water before sending her up to the captain's cabin with a plate of meat and a large mug of rum.

            When she reached the deck with her load, she was surprised to see that the sun was nearly set.  The water had gone from brilliant blue to dark and foreboding.  Where the sun still touched it, in the distance on the port side of the ship, the sea was still bright—full of reds, oranges and whites.  The sky was darkening quickly overhead, though, and stars were already appearing.  The fiery cast of the diminishing sun kissed the distant clouds before slipping away as she knocked on the doors near the stern of the boat.  Anamaria watched her from the helm.  Most of the crew was on the deck—until a bell began to sound from below.  All but a few of the men and Anamaria filtered down the hatch, presumably for dinner.

            The door in front of her opened to reveal a slightly drowsy looking Jack.  He gestured for her to come in, so she slipped past him carefully.  She set the plate and mug on a table in the center of the room, then turned to leave, but Jack had already closed the door.

            "'Ow are ye, love?" he asked, taking a seat at the end of the table and pointing to an empty chair on the side of the table.

            "I'm fine," she said, not bothering to lower her voice any as she pulled the chair out to face him before sitting.

            "That's good," he reached for the mug.  "There's been a slight change in plans.  Instead of reaching Tortuga in the two days I'd planned for, we had to make a little detour," his voice was jovial, bouncing.  She wasn't sure if it was an act or not.  "So we're going to make a brief stop back in Port Royale sometime tomorrow morning before we set our sails to Tortuga again."  Grace wasn't sure whether she was happy about this development or not.  Her muscles still ached a little from scrubbing the deck and her arms were burned where she'd rolled her sleeves up.  Could she honestly take day after day of this?  If it hadn't been for all of her "unwomanly" activities, she probably would have collapsed.

            "Now as the men are bound to notice a few things," his gaze dipped to her chest for a moment.  "Ye can sleep in there," he gestured to a doorway on the ship starboard side.  "Until you scurry off at Tortuga, you'll be my assistant and the cook's helper.  I'll have ye takin' notes an' figures an' helpin' with inventory from our last run.  Cookie'll have ye doin' whatever he wants.  Ye can take yer meals here or with the crew, drink whatever ye like.  Just don't get yerself too hung over, savvy?"

            "I don't think I'll ever do _that_ again…" she muttered, studying the slightly crispy chicken.  He chuckled.

            "As you've been in my presence for the vast majority of the past twenty-four hours, I'm fairly certain you haven't gotten more than four hours of shut-eye.  So ye're to eat, help Cookie clean up and then go to bed, aye?"  She wanted to protest, but her weary body convinced her otherwise.  Relief, unbidden, rushed over her and she nodded with a weak smile.

            "Aye, Cap'n," she told him quietly, then stood.  Feeling his intense gaze on her, she paused to push in the chair.  Not quite sure what to do, she nodded to him, suddenly afraid—or too nervous—to meet eyes.  Her feet made a pleasant thumping noise as she crossed the room—she was growing to like that sound.  In fact, aside from the aches and pains, everything about life on the ship seemed pleasant (though she'd probably change her mind if she had to swab the deck again).  She was even getting her sea legs.  Her mind drifted again to why Jack was helping her.  _Maybe_, she thought.  _Maybe he really is a decent guy_.

            Jack watched the girl leave before starting in on his meal.  The chicken was good—even if it was a little burnt.  He was very pleased that the seas had been calm enough to light the stoves.  He was also pleased that Grace seemed to be getting along just fine.  She looked the part of a pirate completely now.  Her hands were somewhat clean—she'd been helping with the food, after all—but her face and arms were dirty (if a little burned), her hair sagging, matted curls.  She'd worked her arse into exhaustion cleaning the deck, though, the foolish thing.  He took a swig of rum, savoring the familiar taste.  She was good help; it was almost a shame to leave her in Tortuga.  _Almost_, he reminded himself.

He finished quickly, then grabbed an apple from the dish at the center of the table.  It was one of the few things of Barbosa's he'd kept.  He'd thrown most of the mutinous scurve's possessions to the dark embrace of Davy Jones'.  Jack gave a shudder as he remembered that he'd actually had to touch the man's sheets.  Then again, he wasn't entirely sure that the undead ever slept.  

He shined the apple on his shirt as he stood, admiring the bright red gleam of it.  It was time to let Anamaria in on his little scheme.  He planned to leave her on the ship with the girl.  He, Cotton and a few of the others would lift the ransom.  Remembering the other new addition to his crew, he decided to leave Bailey on the ship as well.  If he was running away, it was best if he didn't show his face in Port Royale for a while.  The boy could probably help Cookie with something.  He had a feeling the youngster would make a _good_ pirate.  He'd worked as hard as Grace—though he got to stand instead of scrub.  He remembered with amusement their little coin toss as he made his way out the doors and up the stairs to where Anamaria stood at the helm.  She stepped away as he neared, allowing him to take the wheel.

"Storm's brewin', Cap'n," she said, nodding toward the building clouds.

"Do ye reckon we could make it to the coast before she lets us 'ave it?" he inquired, the hint of a smile on his lips.  She pursed her lips before nodding.

"Very good," his voice was low.  Anamaria knew just what that tone meant.  It meant another of Jack's wild ideas was about to come to fruit.  She stayed silent, knowing that he'd probably let her in on it in his own time.

 "We're about to make a good deal of money, Ana…" he began.

Brody Fenton was not a happy man.  That stinking wench had somehow gotten away clean—and he had no doubt that wretched blacksmith and his girl had helped her.  There was that cock-and-bull story about a pirate kidnapping her, but he didn't believe it.  Not really.  It certainly seemed as though Edward bought it, however.  The old man had gotten together the gold demanded as her ransom as soon as he got the note.  The instructions were to leave it on a deserted beach not far from the outskirts of the city that very night.  Brody had no doubt it was just someone's scheme to make a quick buck.  He'd been expecting to find something at the smithy with those two miscreants, but he hadn't.

He _had_ gone to Norrington afterward, however.  He'd tried to, anyway.  By the time he'd gotten to the fort, the _Dauntles_s had already set sail with the Commodore on board.  It was no matter.  He'd find the bloody girl and she'd pay for this humiliation.  He had half a notion that she was ransoming herself and planned to keep a watch on the chests once he helped Edward haul them to the beach.  He was nearly to the man's house now—they would take a horse and cart as far as they could, then carry them the rest of the way.  A loud peal of thunder reminded him of the coming storm.  The stars were already hidden behind a thick blanket of ominous clouds; they'd be traveling by lantern light this night.  At least the weather was in step with his mood.  The door to Edward Allister's home burst open as he reached it.  Brody was almost amused to find the man in a rage.

"That damned maid servant skipped out on me!" he spat the words out.  Brody wondered _what_ exactly had made the man think she'd stick around.

"Are the trunks loaded?" he asked, ignoring the other man's state.  Edward glared at him for a moment before nodding.

"Yes, shall we depart?"  the older man gestured to a horse and cart, which were illuminated suddenly by lightning.  Edward must have gotten a good look at him in the flash.  "What are those for?" he was peering through the darkness at his young associate.

"I suppose we could call them insurance," he replied, fingering first the hilt of his sword, then the casing of his pistol before walking up to the horse.  He gave the beast a pat before climbing in.  Edward was beside him in no time.  The old man still had a little spunk in him, it seemed.  Brody picked up the worn leather reins and slapped the horse's rump with them.  "Get up!" he said in a rough voice.  They road in silence for a while, until Edward cut through it with a hushed question.

"So, how's business?" he asked.

"You were at my office today, I daresay you know just as well as I how business is," Brody replied in a no-nonsense tone, knowing perfectly well that wasn't what he meant.

"You know what I mean, my boy," the man glanced around at the deserted street.  The impending storm had most inside.  "Our little _side investment_."  Brody let out an almost silent chuckle.

"I've found an island for storage.  We'll be able to smuggle whatever we want to them.  They'll pay well, too, since we're taking the supplies from their enemy in these waters," he directed the nag down a side street—they were nearing the end of actual road.

"Aren't their enemies the pirates?" Edward pointed out.

"The pirates that the English allow to flourish—at least within reason," Brody reminded him.

"Of course," Edward, he saw when he glanced to the side, was giving his little smirk.  Brody felt his own features echo those of his partner-in-crime.  They were going to make a killing.

Grace was ready for sleep.  It hadn't taken long to help Cookie with the clean up, after she'd attacked her helping of chicken (with an apple thrown in for good measure).  She'd nearly fallen asleep in the galley, listening to Cookie complain about the rats.  She made her way carefully up the stairs and onto the deck.  She barely noticed the clouds that had blacked out the stars and moon, or the slight pick-up in the wind, so intent was she on getting to bed.  Jack, she saw, was speaking to Anamaria—Gibbs was climbing the stairs to join them.  She opened the door and closed it behind her with care—it looked like a serious discussion, something she didn't want to interrupt.  She ducked into the second room, grateful to find that there was a door to separate it from the main part of the cabin.

It seemed to be a very lived-in little space.  There was a small desk built into the wall—papers were scattered about on it and a chair was set askew before it.  The bed was small as well, tucked in the corner below the stern windows.  The sheets looked rumpled and slept in—she found herself not minding one bit.  A large shirt had been laid out on the bed, presumably for use as a nightgown.  She changed quickly, to find that the shirt nearly reached her knees.  She climbed into bed, pulling the light sheets up to her chin.  She was asleep within mere moments.

Grace awakened with a loud thud.  She blinked her eyes open to find that she was on the floor.  _Will I _never_ get a good night's sleep again_?  She pushed herself into a sitting position, to find that the chair had fallen over and the papers were scatter about the small room.  The sheets were tangled all around her.  Beneath her she felt the ship rolling and bucking in the waves.  She remembered this sensation—it was a storm.  She extricated herself from the cloth and got to her feet, only to fall backwards onto the lumpy mattress.  Growling, she sought out her pants and pulled them on from her position on the bed—it took a lot of squirming, but she managed.  Next came the boots, which she pulled on in great haste.  She stood once more, taking care to keep herself balanced on the tilting surface of the floorboards.  She grabbed her sword as she yanked the door open, praying to God that her pants would stay up without the sash.

The cabin was occupied, but a quick flash of lightning assured her that it was Anamaria instead of Jack who sat at the table.  The woman was still fully clothed, one booted foot resting on the tabletop, the other on the floor, helping the woman brace herself as the ship rolled about.

"Where's Jack?" The words spilled out of Grace's mouth before she could think.

"He's takin' care of some business, lassie," the woman replied.  While she couldn't see Anamaria's expression, the tone of her voice belied her amusement.  Grace realized several things at that moment—the first, and possibly most important, was that Anamaria knew she wasn't a boy.  The second was that the woman was hiding something.  The third—that she was actually worried about the Captain.  Her own common sense smacked her for that—Jack was a pirate and supposedly knew what he was doing.  He'd be fine.  Why should she even be worried about him in the first place?

She made her way to the table, shifting her weight from side to side and holding her arms out to keep her balance, and picked up one of the fallen chairs (with only a little difficulty).  A crackling peel of thunder kept her silent for a few moments.

"Where are we, anyway?" she asked as she took a seat and set the blade from Will on her lap.  Unlike Ana, Grace chose to keep both her feet on the floor—she wasn't _that_ good at balancing on a ship yet.

"We be at anchor outside Port Royale.  The Cap'n thought it best ye didn't go ashore," a flash of lightning revealed a quiet smile on the other woman's face, and Grace noticed, for the first time, the sheathed blade on her lap.  It was the same one she'd been wearing earlier—too short to be a sword, too long to be a dagger.  Anamaria must have caught her eyeing it during the flash.

"'Ave ye never seen a cutlass a'fore, lass?"  she asked—the amusement had returned to the woman's voice.  Grace felt like a bit of a fool—indeed, she'd never seen or heard of a cutlass before.  She considered answering the woman's question incorrectly, but she had a feeling Anamaria would see right through her bluff.

"No, I suppose I haven't," Grace was eyeing the shadowed blade with interest.  "Would you mind if I had a look at it?"  Ana didn't reply, just dropped her foot off the table and leaned forward to hand Grace the weapon.  The younger woman drew it carefully, marveling at it.  Short, but heavy and cheaply made, she fingered the thing.  Only the outer side of the curved blade was sharpened, she found.  The hilt was interesting, with a guard that cupped around the hand, protecting it.

"It's better for battles on a ship, easier to maneuver," Anamaria spoke as a flash of lightning illuminated the metal in Grace's hands.  "Ye don't thrust it like a sword, it's made for slashin', hackin' away at bits o' yer opponent.  Lot more useful ta' a pirate than that hunk o' steel ye've got."  This bit at Grace's pride more than a little, something that had the unfortunate effect of taking her common sense down a notch.  She handed the cutlass back to Anamaria.

"I think that all depends on who's wielding the blade, I'll thank you very much," Grace's eyes narrowed at the shadow across the table that was Anamaria and she reached for the hilt of her sword.

"Don' do anythin' stupid, lass," the older woman's voice held plenty of warning.  Grace bit her lip.  Perhaps a little bout wasn't the best idea, but she was stinging from the remark Ana had made about Will's gift, and the pain of leaving her friends was still fresh in her mind.

"What do you say to a little duel?  We could leave our weapons sheathed," Grace was fingering the grip on her lap.  Ana gave a low-pitched chuckle.  "It'd be interesting, after all," she added as the ship gave a buck that caused both of their chairs—and the table—to screech in protest as gravity carried them across the wooden floor.

"It certainly would be interestin', I'll give ye that," the woman told her, then grew silent for several moments.  "I s'pose if we left the sheathes on no real 'arm would come of it…"  A flash of lightning revealed grins on both of the women's faces.  Each of them stood, weapon in hand.  The ship rolled beneath them and a roar came from above as the downpour finally erupted, drops of rain hitting the deck above them and drowning out most other sounds.  Ana moved first, trying to catch the younger woman in a downswing.  Grace had already moved to the side.  This was idiocy, she realized as logic dropped into her brain.  Another part of her, the part that loved swordplay, thought it was fun.  Chances were she'd never have an opportunity to test her skills in such conditions ever again, and she was eager to see how well she did.  The windows at the back and port sides of the room provided some illumination, enough that she could make out the shadow that was Anamaria.  She thrust the sheathed blade toward Anamaria's side, but a roll of the ship sent her staggering toward the back of the room.  Ana, more accustomed to moving on a ship, was on her in moments.  Grace was saved by a last-minute duck on her part.

For several moments after she regained her balance, the two of them simply circled each other.  This time it was Grace who moved first, feinting to Ana's left side before swinging around to stab at her right.  Ana twisted out of the way moments before another buck of the ship sent Grace staggering backwards, only to trip over one of the fallen chairs.  A sudden flare of lightning lit up Ana's expression as she stood over her opponent—she wore a good-natured grin.  Grace rolled to the right, off of the chair and kicked it at her opponent.  Ana hadn't been expecting that, and it combined with another bucking roll of the ship to help her to the floor.  Grace climbed to her feet.  _Is it just me, or are those waves getting bigger?_  The ship slanted sideways yet again, sending Grace into the counter that ran along the walls beneath the windows.  The edge of the surface hit her squarely in the right side, just below her ribcage.  Grace was immediately certain that she'd have a large bruise in a tapestry of colors in the spot and groaned inwardly as Ana staggered to her feet.  Another wave sent them both off-balance again.  Ana went back to the floor; Grace grabbed the counter to keep herself upright.  Seconds after the wave Grace had the tip of the sheath at the other woman's throat.

"_Yew win_!" the woman yelled over the pounding of the rain.  Another wave sent Grace to the floor to join the pirate.

"_Now will you tell me where Jack is_?" she yelled back, propping herself up on her elbows.  She heard Anamaria laugh beside her, long and loud.

"If I tell ye, ye prolly aren't goin' to like it," the woman called back.  Grace let herself fall back to the floor, watching the storm play outside the windows as rain streamed down the glass in rivers.

"I still want to know," she said, just loud enough for the other woman to hear (which in other circumstances would have carried through most of the ship).  Ana was silent for several minutes as the ship moved beneath them.  Grace's stomach wasn't reacting well to the weather—every big wave tickled her innards.  It was annoying, she found as she was finally given a chance to concentrate on it.  _Things could be worse_, she reminded herself.  _I could be getting sea sick, but I'm not_.  The fresh bruise on her side was throbbing—not a terribly good sign.

"Fine," Anamaria's voice drew her attention away from her discomforts.  "Jack sent a ransom note to yer da.  We were goin' to wait 'till after we'd left ye in Tortuga to pick it up, but what with the _Dauntless_ leaving port, we decided to pick it up a bit early.  Jack took seven of the crew an' Mistah Gibbs, I don' think they'll run into much trouble though.  The Cap'n thinks yer da'll keep the ransom quiet fer appearance's sake."  Grace blinked, anger suddenly filling her.

"So what?  He was going to take me back?  Or just tell them where I was?"

"No, no, no, lass!  'E 'ad Cookie stain that dress o' yourn with chicken blood.  'E's goin' ta' leave that fer yer da to find, so 'e'll think ye've been killed.  Don' mention to Jack that I told ye, though, aye?" she ended that on a down note—she was apparently done explaining.

So, _that_ was why he'd wanted the dress.  Jack was making a quick buck off of her departure.  Grace suddenly felt both very used and very angry.  Jack had been planning to wait until she was gone to get the ransom—he obviously wasn't intending to give her a share in his little get-rich-quick scheme.  It also occurred to her that the only reason she was on this ship was that Jack had had this in the works from the very beginning.  Within her anger battled with the disappointment that she'd been wrong about the man.  In the end, anger won out and she let out a loud growl—or something that sounded like one for any matter.

"_That bloody pirate_!" she roared, climbing hastily to her feet.  She wanted to throw something, but enough sense had a hold of her that she didn't.  She was mad.  Mad at the stinking weather, mad at Anamaria for telling her, mad at Jack for using her, and, most of all, mad at herself for being so damned _stupid_.  Jack had never been trying to help her; he was in it for himself.  On some level, she knew she wasn't quite thinking straight, that her mind was clouded with anger and lack of sleep, but she was past the point of caring.  She tried to stalk across the room, only to be knocked off her feet by another buck of the ship.  Her anger seemed to fall with her, until she was suddenly aware of an irrational, bitter disappointment that turned her easily tickled stomach into a hollow cavity.

* * *

Whew!  That took me a little longer than anticipated.  I had most of it finished by Sunday night, but I haven't gotten much of a chance to work on it since then (I find myself quite suddenly employed).  Anyway, I hope this chapter's enjoyable.  Several of you said you enjoyed longer chapters, so I've complied with this one.^_-  I'm not sure if the rest of the chapters will be this long, but I'll never have one as short as Chapter the Third again.

For the layout on the ship I used references from the movie, a diagram of _Queen Anne's Revenge_ and my imagination.  I _hope_ it's halfway accurate as ships go, but I doubt I'll go back and change things if I find out otherwise.  Quick note if you're not sure (and I couldn't keep them straight until a few days ago):  Port is left, starboard is right (Port and left have the same number of letters! ^_-).

Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed.  I like hearing what people think, love it or hate it.^_^

And I think that's just about enough for this author's note.

Disclaimer:  Check out the first chapter.  That applies here, too.

Thanks for reading!^_^

PS – I'm not quite sure what's up with the formatting (indentations, specifically).  I'll work on them when I get a chance, though.


	7. On the Beach and the Boat

            The storm let loose about the time Jack and his company reached their destination.  They'd made it to Port Royale around midnight and dropped anchor just out of sight of the beach Jack had crossed the afternoon before.  They rowed two of the longboats to the sheer wall of rock that was one of the cliffs that bordered the white sand.  It was Jack who scaled it first, followed by the sharp-eyed Moises, the brawny Kursar, and the quick-thinking young Matelot.  Carefully, the quartet made its way across the rocky, uneven ground until they came to the drop-off that bordered the beach.  Jack's normal swagger was there, and any observers would probably wonder how he made it across the pitted surface without falling flat on his face.  Moises glanced at his captain, who nodded wordlessly, then sank down to his belly, pulled out a scope and began to spy through the trees for observers.  Jack, too, sank to his belly, grinning like a madman when he saw the four chests on the beach.  Kursar kept watch on the ship and longboats while Matelot prowled along the cliff's edge, searching, like Moises, for any sign of an ambush.

            A rough shake of his shoulder alerted Jack, who had been doing some very promising mental calculations, that Moises had spotted something.  He took the offered scope and followed the direction of the pirate's finger.  Below them, concealed in the trees, crouched a large man.  Jack thought he could make out a sword at his side, but he wasn't sure about any other weapons.  _Well, that's not Grace's dear old da…Maybe it's that fiancée of hers_, he mused as he handed the scope back to Moises.  After a few minutes, Matelot returned, telling Jack with a shake of the head that he'd found no one.  Moises, too, shook his head.  There was only one man in those trees.  He'd been right, after all—Mr. Allister hadn't gone to the authorities.  

With a smirk, he drew back from the edge of the cliff, then stood.  That's when the rain began to fall in droves.  He had Kursar signal—as well as he could in the blinding downpour—to the longboats to stay put.  Then the four men made their way inland, where the harsh rocks of the coast gave way to Caribbean greenery.  The drop-off to the beach ward side of the small plateau slowly became shorter and shorter, until the men could easily jump down to the hill that gave way to the beach.  As they neared the spot in the forest where the man was waiting, he signaled to his companions to stay put and continued on alone.

Jack's smirk had grown and a spring had come into his step.  The rain on the palm leaves above him eliminated any great need for stealth.  He even forgave it for getting him soaking wet.  He drew his sword the moment he caught sight of the man.  He was well dressed, from his pristine—if more than slightly damp—white shirt to his sand-covered buckle shoes.  Jack made his way forward, now with a bit more care, until the point of his blade was under an inch from the back of the man's neck—right beside the waterlogged brown tail of the man's hair.  Jack wondered briefly if this was Grace's fiancée, then decided to be polite and greet the soon-to-be-unconscious man.

            "'Ello, mate, what brings you out on a night like this?" he spoke loudly, but retained a conversational tone.  The man spun around, trying to rise as he did, but falling backwards when he saw the naked steel before him.  Jack smirked.  Will's gift sure was intimidating.

            "Who do you think you are?" the man spat out.

            "Well, now, that's no way to see 'ello, matey," this was, Jack realized, going to be fun.  "Ye kin call me Grant.  Captain Grant, that is."

            "Captain Grant, eh?" the man peered around Jack.  "Where's Grace?"

            "Grace is all safe, sound and settled in for the night," he replied.  "Now, just who might you be?" he asked, branding the sword in the man's face.

            "I am her fiancée and I insist that she be returned before you touch a single piece of gold," the man replied, suddenly trying to seem brave and in control of the situation.  Jack grinned a cockeyed grin—so this _was_ the swine of a man.  Grace had told him plenty about young Brody Fenton and Jack hadn't liked what he'd heard.  Women hitting _him_ was one thing—it just wasn't right the other way around.

            "Well, I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken, because I'm here for that swag and I really don't think you'll be able to stop me."

            "I can certainly try," the man snarled.  Brody moved in a flash and a shot rang out.  _Apparently_, Jack thought, _he has a pistol_.  The next moment he was inescapably aware of a searing pain in his upper left arm.  _Well, he missed my vitals_, Jack was trying to put an upward spin on things.  He still had his sword arm, after all.  Brody scrambled to his feet, drawing his own sword instead of bothering to reload his pistol.  The Captain brought his blade up into a guard position as the man thrust forward.  _He's certainly no Will Turner_, he mused as the man thrust again, this time putting as much force as he could muster into the blow.  Jack stepped to the right, tripping the man with his left foot.  Brody got a mouthful of coarse dirt.  _He's certainly no Captain Jack Sparrow, either._  The man was trying to prop himself up with one hand and trying to wipe the sand from his eyes with the other.  Jack squatted beside him and Brody looked up, his dark brown eyes wide with surprise.

            "G'night, matey," Jack smiled nastily at him before giving him a sound blow from his blade's hilt.  There was a resounding thud as the hilt collided with the back of the man's skull.  Brody fell back to the ground, out like a flame in the wind.  Jack whistled loudly, realized he could hardly hear himself in the gale and called out to the three waiting pirates, instead.  They appeared at a jog and Jack led them to the beach.  His left arm was burning, but Jack had soundly decided to ignore it until the chests were safely on the _Pearl_.

            Kursar ran across the wet sand to the water's edge and signaled the longboats to join them.

            "Merry Christmas, mates," Jack muttered under his breath as the crew began loading the chests—two to each boat.  He began to hum his eternal song as Mr. Gibbs approached him, the bloodstained blue dress in his arms.

            "Ye've got ta' be the craziest man I know, Jack," he said, clapping the man on the back.  "But, I'll be struck down if ye don' always pull it off some'ow."  They stood for a moment before Gibbs realized that Jack was bleeding.

            "What 'appened, Jack?  That son of a jackal cut ye?" he asked, concern in his voice.

            "Not quite," Jack grinned his familiar cockeyed grin, not wanting to worry his friend.  Matelot interrupted any further inquires from Gibbs by trudging through the sand to inform them that the boats were loaded—the pirates were ready to go.  The Captain strolled across the beach with his usual drunken pace and climbed into the first of the boats.  Gibbs dropped the dress on the dark sand, then heaved himself into the second boat.  Those pirates still on the beach followed.

            "Let's get on home, eh mates?" Jack called over the roar of the wind and rain.  They rowed across the rough, pitted surface of the water, making for the ship.  A sudden flash of lightning lit their surrounds until it was bright as day, with all the vibrant colors to match.  There, in the distance, rolling gently on the waves was his ship.  Jack felt a sudden swell of pride.  The_ Black Pearl_—she was _his_ ship.

            Anamaria climbed to her feet and spotted Grace's shadowy figure in a heap on the floor.  She made her way over to the girl, taking care to balance herself against the waves.  She held a hand out to the young woman.

            "Perhaps ye'd best get some shut-eye, eh?" she said as Grace stared at her hand.  Ana did feel a bit sorry for the girl—from what Jack had told her, she'd had one hell of a day—but no good came from sitting about being frustrated, as the lass seemed to be.

            "I don't think I could get back to sleep even if I wanted to," she replied, finally taking her hand.  Anamaria helped her up and the two just stood there for a moment.  She had a feeling it would be best that Grace cool down a little before Jack returned.  Shouts from the deck told her she was too late.  It seemed that the party had returned.  By the look on Grace's face in the next flash of lightning—angled toward the door behind her with a frown and narrowed eyes—she had a feeling the girl knew the Captain was back as well.  Grace started toward the door, but Anamaria grabbed onto her obviously too-large shirt and held her back.

            "I wouldn't be doin' that, missy," she warned.  "If ye want to take it out on 'im that much ye kin wait 'till he's _in here_."  Ana didn't need any light to know that Grace was glaring at her.

            "Fine," the word was cold.  Anamaria let out a silent sigh.  She was about to begin to try to talk the girl out of doing anything rash when the door was jerked open.  A waterlogged Jack stood silhouetted in the doorway.  Anamaria suddenly knew that she didn't want to be there when the shite 'hit the fan', so to speak.  She sent a last glance in Grace's direction before slipping past Jack to help the rest of the crew with their newly acquired swag.

            Grace's mood had fluctuated back to seething.  She watched as Jack sent a look after Anamaria's receding back before closing the door.  He crossed the floor with his usual swaggering step—she marveled that he could do it in such stormy conditions.  He came to a stop almost directly it front of her and ruffled her hair as he leaned past her to snatch up the only apple remaining in the table's (now not-so centered) centerpiece.

            "You're certainly up early, Gracie," he said before taking a bite.  The gale had come down just enough that he needn't yell—just speak loudly.

            "You…You _swine_," she stammered.  Jack was obviously a bit surprised and she heard him coughing as he choked on his bite of apple.

            "Pardon?" he asked after a few moments of catching his breath.

            "You _used_ me, you vile, ill-bred…" she paused for a moment, searching for the right word in frustration.  "_Pirate_!"  She could just barely make out the sound of Jack chomping on another bite of apple, which didn't help her temper one bit.  "You ransomed me off to make a quick buck and didn't even tell me, let along offer me a share!  I thought you were actually trying to _help_ me!  We made a _deal_!"  Jack put a finger to her lips, which effectively shut her up.  She stared at it cross-eyed for a moment.  His hand—not to mention the rest of him—was still soaking, and the cool water on his finger felt good against her chapped lips.

            "Now, first of all, I've kept to my end of the deal.  Your father and fiancée think you're dead and unless you want to swim to shore, I'll still take you to Tortuga.  Secondly, you _assumed_ I was only trying to help you, which is a very silly thing to assume, indeed—but I'm willing to overlook that.  Last of all, you have passage on this ship, which happens to belong to _me_, for next to a song.  So let's just say you got a share in the ransom and, in turn, gave it to me so as to pay for your little voyage to Tortuga.  I see no cause whatsoever for name calling on your part, love, so let's stop that right now—unless you want to be swimming to Port Royale, that is," he cocked his head to the side, dark eyebrows raised.  Grace let out an anger-filled sigh that escaped around the finger still in front of her mouth.  He'd left it there through his spiel, restricting himself to only one avidly speaking hand.  "Now let's be a good little girl and get some more sleep, aye?"

            "I'm not a _little girl_," she growled, knocking his hand out of her face.  She growled, knocking his hand out of her face.  She wasn't quite sure what possessed her to commit to her next movement when she looked back, the fatigue that gripped her bones, her anger at herself or Jack, the pain of leaving a home yet _again_, or something else entirely, but she had feeling that he'd deserve it at sometime or another if he didn't entirely deserve it at that moment.  The next thing Grace knew, she'd pulled her right arm back, gathered every last ounce of strength she had, and, with her hand balled into a tight fist, swung at the man.  There was a sharp thud as her knuckles connected with Jack's cheekbone, her ring connecting solidly with the bone below his eye.  Jack's head moved with the blow and Grace could just barely make out the pained expression on his face when he turned back to face her.

            The girl rubbed her knuckles, which were hurting more than a little.  Why did punching someone have to cause such pain?

            "I don't really think I deserved that," he said, reaching across his body to rub his left cheek with his right hand.  Grace's only reply was a ruffled 'hmph!'  She glared at him with as much venom as she could muster.  _Bloody pirate…I'm not a little girl.  _Some logical part of her realized that she was misdirecting the anger she had for herself, but the rest of her was trying its best to ignore that little fact.  Jack's hand, she noticed, had moved to his arm and she wondered briefly why.  Then came yet another flash of lightning, followed by a resounding crack of thunder.  Beneath his hand and trailing down the wet, off-white shirt was a new stain—a deep, dark burgundy in color.

            Grace felt her stomach sink to her knees.  She felt suddenly horrible, the anger seeping quickly out of her to be replaced by the cold logic that was so critical of her.  Yet again, she was a fool.  Could she do nothing right?  She'd just punched an injured man.

            "What happened?" she demanded.

            "Your fiancée and I had a nice little chat.  'E doesn't seem to like pirates much—he took a little shot at me," he was grinning again, she noticed, with a little annoyance.  Was the man really stupid enough to walk around with an open wound, spilling blood like a leaky bucket?

            "Didn't you cover it with anything?"

            "Haven't really had the chance, love," he shrugged.  Apparently, he was stupid enough.  She reached down and ripped a strip of cloth from her nightshirt.  "That's my shirt!" he complained as she stepped closer to investigate the gash.  Jack refused to move his hand.  She cleared her throat menacingly and he was suddenly more apt to comply.  She pushed his left sleeve up as far as it would go, then moved her hands down to the still-bleeding cut.  The sleeve promptly fell down, getting in her way, and she pushed it up again—her motions speaking worlds of her annoyance.  She grabbed Jack's free hand and placed it on the rolled sleeve before going back to her work.  He seemed to get the message.

            It wasn't deep—the bullet seemed to have done little more than graze his arm midway between his elbow and shoulder.  She didn't have to worry about getting a bullet out and she was glad—according to the gardener who'd taught her sword work, that was a messy piece of business.  She wrapped the fraying strip of cloth around his arm tightly, winding it around his arm as many times as she could before tying it off.  She leaned back a bit to review her handiwork.  It had slowed the bleeding considerably, though there was still a trail of it down his dark, well-muscled arm.  _Why am I looking at his muscles?  _She asked herself, feeling a warm blush creep into her face.  She watched as the shadowy figure that was Jack brought his hands together in a prayer-like gesture and bowed both his head and his hands toward her in a symbol of thanks.

            "I assume ye'll be staying aboard, then, aye love?" he asked.

            "I don't particularly want to go home, so I suppose I don't have much of a choice," she grumbled, eyes boring into the floorboards and Jack's brown boots, which had been dyed black by the rain.  A sudden wave—more violent than any since the one that had knocked Grace into the counter—sent her falling forward.  She sucked in her breath as she held out her hands to catch herself before she hit the floor.  To her mild surprise, they ran into cloth covering flesh and she remembered that Jack was standing right in front of her.  As they were both still upright, the wave didn't seem to have affected him much.  All of a sudden, she noticed that she was leaning against the pirate captain's still drenched chest and his arms were around her.  Her face was pressed against his neck—one strand of his braided beard tickling her nose.  He smelled of sweat and saltwater, a mixture she didn't find at all unpleasant.  For a moment she didn't move—wet as he was, Jack was warm.  Not to mention as comfortable to lean against as her pillow was to lie on.  Then again, that might've been the lack of sleep talking.  She looked up to see Jack's familiar toothy grin.

            "We're rather friendly all of a sudden," he said in a mirthful tone.  Annoyance picked at her once again—he certainly thought quite a lot of himself.  She pushed her way out of his grasp and took several steps back.  His grin did nothing but grow wider.  She gave a loud 'hmph' before turning on her heel and returning to her borrowed room and slamming the door.

* * *

            Wheeee!  Second chapter in two days.^_^  I think this is my favorite so far—Jack seems a little more in character to me, though I might be mistaken.

            I'm having trouble deciding whether or not Grace is Mary Sue-ish—I'm trying to avoid that, so let me know if you notice that little aspect.  I think she was a bit of a brat in this chapter, the silly girl.  Maybe once she gets a good night's sleep she'll think things through a little better, eh?  In her defense, she _has_ only gotten about six hours of shut-eye in the past forty-one hours.

            Anyway, I hope this is an enjoyable chapter.  Chapter the Eighth will give a bit more perspective from the views of other characters—it's hinting at being a long chapter.^_^

            I'm still waiting for confirmation on whether or not Grace's punch will give Jack a black eye—My buddy Bob would know, but he's at work (Gift shop boy at Omaha's Henry Doorly Zoo).

            Thanks yet again to everyone who's reviewed.  *huggles you all*  Everytime I see that reviewbot I get a warm fuzzy feeling.  There'll be a really long section at the end of this fic with actual replies to your comments—the insanity of the moment prevents me from doing so now. .

Thanks for reading!^_^


	8. Aches, Pains and Days

            It was a sore neck and a throbbing head that greeted Brody Fenton the next morning.  He awoke to a mouthful of vile-tasting dirt and sand in more places than he wished to think about.  He lay there several minutes, listening to the soothing sounds of the nearby ocean lapping on the beach just through the trees and a light breeze ruffling the palm leaves overhead.  The calls of several species of fowl met his ears as well, and were what finally convinced him to open his eyes.  The sun had returned to Jamaica and things were far too bright for Brody's current taste.  His sword was beside him, he noticed immediately, but his pistol was unaccounted for.  He was lying on his belly, a none too comfortable position, so it was easy to get his hands under himself and push away from the ground.  His action was met by a brief bout of nausea, which he ignored until he'd rolled over and was able to sit on the still damp ground.

            He rubbed his face, wiping the sand from his eyes and cheeks.  There was little doubt in his mind that his face was red from such prolonged contact with the stuff.  Brody spat as well, trying to get the foul taste of dirt and sand from his mouth.  He sat for several minutes, recalling the night before and how he'd been so shamefully defeated by a scallywag.  It did not improve his mood.  Slowly, he dragged himself to the nearest tree, trying not to aggravate his head.  Using the trunk to help steady himself, Brody pulled himself to his feet.  He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them with a new determination.  First, he decided, he would go to the beach.  He had no doubt that the pirate had made off with the chests of gold, but perhaps there would be some clue about the whereabouts of that stinking wench.  He took the short walk slowly, with plenty of care.  The nausea had not subsided and Brody found it much easier to take things nice and easy.

            The beach was barren—the chests were gone.  There was nothing but sand on the beach.  _Wait_…he squinted, then made his way stumbling across the beach.  The dress was torn in several places and splattered with muck and…blood.  Anger coursed through the young man.  _He_ was supposed to get the satisfaction of killing her—not that bloody pirate.  He bent down and snatched the fabric up with his right hand, gave one more long look around him, then started up the trail to Port Royale.  The trip was uninteresting and Brody found himself concentrating on keeping his balance and keeping last night's meal down.  He did fold the dress before reaching an area of any population—there was nothing to be gained from the city folk gossiping about Brody Fenton walking about with a bloodstained garment.  He kept off of the most crowded streets, taking a round-a-bout way home.  A wave of relief hit him when he finally spotted the small white house that was his own.  The knob turned without resistance—he hadn't bothered to lock it the night before.  All of his important effects were stored in his office, after all.

            Sitting on the bench at the right side of the wood floored hallway was a surprise he frankly didn't want to deal with.  Amber waves of hair were piled atop the woman's head in what he supposed what a stylish new fashion in London.  Her dark brown eyes met his gaze evenly and there was a hint of a smile on her full lips.  She wore a dark green dress over a stunningly white shift, her already thin waist corseted tightly.  Beside her, a parasol leaned against the bench.  Her voice held the same mocking tone she'd always used with him.

            "Good morning, brother dear," her eyes gleamed with cruel amusement.  "Wherever have you been?  You look simply a-shambles."  His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit.

            "Hello, _dear_ Mary," he replied.  "What brings you so far from father's money?"  Her smile was sincere only in the nasty quality she gave it.

            "From all of your letters, the Caribbean sounded simply divine.  I felt I must visit," her face held a cool look of superiority.  "Before my wedding."  So _that_ was it, he supposed.  She'd come to gloat.  He knew all about his younger sister's wedding from correspondence with his father.  It was a good match, he supposed.  She was to marry a wealthy older man and give him a son before he passed on.  Mary would be living very richly for the rest of her life.

            "Of course," he told her politely.

            "Where is your darling fiancée, brother?" she asked.  Brody pursed his lips.  He'd toyed with an idea, on the way home.  Something the pirate had said—that she was safe and sound and settled for the night.  The man had _seemed _sincere enough to place doubt in his mind.

            "I honestly don't know," he said, glancing from the dress to his sister.  Without another word he made his way past her, intending to change his clothes.  A small hand clutching his shirt gave him pause.

            "Where were you this morning?  What are you into that has you covered in such filth?" she demanded.

            "I had a run-in with a pirate," he told her, making no move to turn and face the girl.  "I spent lat night a most of this morning face-down in the dirt.  Is that a suitable explanation, _Mary dear_?"  He didn't wait for a reply, simply walked out of her grasp, a fresh set of clothes near the top of his mind—Grace Allister foremost in it.

            Elizabeth was more than a little concerned about her young friend.  The storm of the night before hadn't helped matters, either.  She spent the morning pacing the smithy restlessly as Will worked.  It didn't take much for Will to notice that the woman was upset, so before long he stopped working entirely and sat the woman down on the step near the shop's main entrance.

            "Jack will return soon, I'm sure of it," he told her, cupping her face with a rough hand.  "And he'll be able to tell us where Grace is, if she's all right—and she will be all right with Jack watching out for her."

            "That's one of the things I'm concerned about—You've _met_ Jack.  You know how he is with women."

            "Actually, I just know that he usually deserves to be slapped," Will gave her a broad smile and she rolled her eyes.

            "You know what I mean," she met his brown eyes

            "Of course I do, but I trust Jack—Grace will be fine.  I'm sure of it."  They were silent for several moments, Will stroking his fiancée's cheek with a calloused thumb.  Until she asked a rather unexpected question.

            "Will…When are we going to marry?" her eyebrows were knotted together.  The blacksmith blinked in surprise.  "I…I do want to marry you before we leave Port Royale.  I want my father to be there—and the commodore and Gillette.  Though…I want Jack there, as well—and all of his crew.  And Grace, of course," she bit her lip, trying to think of a solution.  Will said nothing for a moment—then a bright idea entered his mind.

            "We can get married here once, and again in Tortuga," he said smiling at her.  She gave him a slightly bewildered look.

            "There are clerics in Tortuga?"  Will actually had no idea how much a presence the church had in such a place, but nodded anyway.

            "I'm sure there are."

            "It's a silly idea," she said sternly.

            "Well, I don't think things will turn out well if we invite both Jack and Commodore Norrington to the same wedding, if you catch my drift," he raised an eyebrow and she almost laughed.

            "I suppose there are worse ideas," she smiled.

            "Then go tell your father we are to wed as soon as possible," he moved his hand from her cheek and offered it—with as much gallantry as he could muster—to his bride-to-be.  She took it with an equal share of ladylike attitude, gave him a kiss on the cheek and strolled out of the smithy, heading for the governor's house.

            _Well_, Jack eyed the girl masquerading as a young man beside him.  _I think she's still rather angry about last night, but I'm sure she'll get over it sooner or later_.  On the upside, she seemed to have gotten some sense knocked into since the little snit she'd had.  She didn't grumble about any of the work he gave her; she actually seemed intent on keeping her head down.  Of course, the lass had nearly given him a black eye.  He reached up to rub the small scab that had formed beneath his eye—a souvenir from Grace's ring.  From what he'd heard from Anamaria, the girl had had a bit of a workout beforehand—something he was very happy about.  It didn't take much force to give someone a black eye if you hit them in the right spot—and Grace had gotten him in the right spot.  Apparently he wasn't the only one nursing injuries, however.  Anamaria had a large bump on the back of her head from her encounters with the floor in the ladies' mock duel and Grace was nursing her right side.  He'd seen Cookie about his arm.  The man had poured some rum into the wound before rebandaging it.  It ached something terrible, but he'd certainly live.

            He chuckled a little inwardly, wishing he could have seen the two have at it in the dark on a stormy night.  Ana had grinned when she'd told them about their fight—Grace wasn't a bad swordswoman, apparently.  The pirate woman maintained that she could have beaten the girl—all it would have taken was a swift kick to the knees—but her own sense had told her to stop moving around so much with those bangs to the head.  Jack had gotten a good look at the lump and didn't doubt her.  The diameter of it was the full length of his thumb.

            "I've finished with the adding, Cap'n," he heard her say and turned to face the girl.

            "And what did you come up with?" he asked, grinning broadly.  They were in the hold of the ship, figuring the number of gold pieces they'd taken in during the night.

            "Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-two pieces," she told him, her voice quiet.

            "Well, then, I do believe our business has been completed," he told her, standing and lifting the lantern from the table in front of her.

            "Aye, Cap'n," she said, grabbing the paper she'd used to figure as she followed him up the stairs to the deck.  Jack blinked in the harsh sunlight, trying to help his eyes adjust.  His first look went to the wheel.  Young Bailey had hold of it, the scrutinous eyes of Anamaria upon him.  Jack let himself grin.  It was good for the boy, after all, and probably good for Anamaria, as well—she could relax a little.  He led the girl through his cabin and into her borrowed quarters.  The room, he noticed immediately, was in disarray.  They'd cleaned the main room earlier that morning, but he hadn't given this one a thought.  Wordlessly, they both began to put things in order.  It was nearly twenty minutes later, as he was going through the papers that had once made their home on his desk, that Grace spoke up with a question he had a feeling she'd been dying to ask.

            "Why wouldn't you let Will and Elizabeth on the ship?" she was making the bed, trying to sound conversational and failing.

            "D'ye really think they'd have approved of my little venture?" he asked in return.

            "I should've known," her voice betrayed her grumpiness.  He didn't mind—at least she was showing some spunk again.

            Bailey was having the time of his life.  Anamaria—even with her being a woman and all—was the best pirate he'd ever met.  Aside from Captain Jack Sparrow, of course.  His father held a very low opinion of the pirate, him being a military man and all, something that only made Jack a better person in the boy's eyes.  Bailey's father was a gunner in the fort, generally well liked among his companions and hated by his only son.  The old man was good to his friends, but not to his family.  He got drunk on a regular basis, something that only increased his desire for control.  He'd hit his wife for the stupidest little things, and his son for having so much as a hair out of line.  Bailey's mother, God rest her soul, had taken ill and passed away the year before, making his father cruel to the point of intolerability.  So he'd left.  He'd run away, having no destination in mind, and where did he find himself?  The _Black Pearl_.

            Anamaria was the first real pirate he'd ever met.  She was fair to him, sometimes even kind.  Those were things he hadn't known since his mother's death and he reveled in the positive attention.  He was proud of his work—and he'd apparently done a good job.  Anamaria had actually given him the helm of the _Pearl_.  He didn't even mind that he was helping Ana primarily, instead of Jack.  He even felt a bit sorry for Grey—Jack had the boy doing paperwork and things in the hold.  He wouldn't trade places with the other boy for anything.  This was the life—he was sure of it.

            After his few days on the ship, he'd decided.  He was now hell-bent on becoming a pirate.

            Grace was thoroughly ashamed of her behavior the night before.  Her actions had made perfect sense at the time, but in hindsight, they seemed a little rash.  More than a little rash.  The fight with Anamaria had been fun, though.  She'd noticed right off the bat that the woman was a great swordsman and Grace knew she wouldn't have lasted more than a few seconds against her if it weren't for her eight years of training with the blade.  It really bothered her though—she'd been wide open at the end of the fight, what had possessed the woman to yield?  She shook her head, then ran her fingers across her newly made bed, smoothing out the wrinkles.  She'd rarely made her own bed before, though she'd seen Mrs. James do it more than once.  She hoped she hadn't done anything wrong.

            She _was_ still rather irritated with Jack.  The man had the gall to ask her to help count out _her _ransom that she wouldn't get a single piece from.  He also had the stinking idea to leave her friends off the ship because he knew they wouldn't like what he was doing.  When she thought about it, it was probably a sensible move on his part.  She glanced over at the pirate, noticing the short, thick braid at the back of his head for the first time.  He was certainly an odd man, she mused, retrieving the pillow from the floor.  He did seem like a sensible man, though—even if he was rather lewd.

            That was the main cause of her current irritation with him.  He really did think a bit highly of himself.  _Well, it isn't as though he's altogether unattractive, _she reminded herself, then gave herself a mental smack.  This was Jack Sparrow she was thinking about—Captain Jack Sparrow.  She certainly didn't have any real interest in him—and even if she did, she was sure that he wouldn't be at all interested in her.  _Best to think about other things_, that logical voice deep inside warned her.

            The next two days and a half days passed very quickly for Grace.  Quite possibly because she was busy every moment of the day.  She woke at dawn each day, then helped Jack with figures.  She'd looked over his papers and was quite aware that he could do the calculations himself, but she had a feeling that he didn't want to.  It was rather dull work, after all.  They sorted out how much each man on the ship would receive, something that needed to be done before they reached Tortuga and the men wanted to spend it.

            She helped Cookie prepare lunch each day—not a difficult job.  Now that the chickens were gone, there was little left in the stores besides hard-tack (which tasted about as good as it sounded), making meal preparation quick and easy.  She just had to help move out silverware—and listen to Cookie's eternal complaints about not having a cat to kill the ship's rats.  She took her lunch on deck, bringing up shares for Anamaria and Bailey, who volunteered for most mealtime watches.  She also delivered a plate of the stuff to the captain, before returning to spend her meal with the other cabin boy and Anamaria.

            Grace had come to greatly admire the woman, who was just beginning to teach Bailey how to use a cutlass.  It was clear that the boy held the woman in high esteem, he was like her shadow, following her everywhere she went.  Grace, still critical of her supposed win, asked the woman for a rematch one day, but she just laughed and grinned at the young "Grey".

            She spent her afternoons copying down what Jack dictated to her for the log as he stood at the helm.  She liked the afternoons far better than the mornings—she was outside, after all, with a wonderful view of the rest of the ship and the sea around her.  She helped Cookie with dinner in the evenings, a process that was quite the same as lunch, but with less light outside.  She took these meals with Ana and Bailey, as well.  Some part of her would have liked to dine with Jack, but she deemed it a foolish part of her.  Besides, Jack usually ate with Mr. Gibbs, who didn't seem pleased that she was on the ship—apparently, women were bad luck.  A few of the crewmembers also ate with the Captain much of the time and she felt as though she'd be a fish out of water if she were to join them.

            Most of the crew seemed to like both "Grey" and Bailey rather well, though both of them were the butt of several jokes and rude comments.  Ana told them to take it in good humor; it was the normal treatment for cabin boys.  As for Anamaria, she was well respected among the crew, having proved her salt on more than one occasion—several of which Grace heard about from the woman herself.

            She was really beginning to enjoy life on the ship.  All too soon she heard a cry of "Land ho!" from Moises in the crow's nest.  She and Bailey helped wherever they were told as they brought the ship into the harbor and dropped anchor.  Few of the crew stayed on board that night, for it was evening when they finally reached Tortuga.  As they came ashore in the longboats, she looked around dubiously.  _Tortuga certainly seems to be a rough town_, she observed as a fight broke out in front of her.  She simply stood for several minutes, looking around the port.  Anamaria clapped her on the back as she passed, then turned and gave a little nod to the young woman.  Bailey, who was right behind the pirate woman, followed suit.  Then they were gone, suddenly part of the crowd that swarmed Tortuga.  Grace felt hollow inside—she was on her own now.

            "Ah, Tortuga.  Such a fragrant blossom of the Caribbean," came a voice from behind her.  She knew immediately who it was as she'd had to listen to that voice for quite a bit of the last several days.

            "I suppose you could say that…" she replied as his drunken walk halted beside her.  She felt something leather tucked into the hand at her side, then she felt her hand forced to close around it.

            "Don't spend it all it one place, love," he told her, his voice low as her threw her a cockeyed grin filled with gleaming metal.  She noticed the small mark beneath his eye for the umpteenth time in the past few days.  She still felt pretty bad about punching him.  He tousled her hair, then started to walk off.

            "Wait!" she heard herself saying.  He stopped mid-step and gave a little turn to face her.  "What do I do now?" she asked.  She really had no idea herself, she never been on her own before—she'd always had someone watching out for her.  Until now, anyway.  Jack's lopsided grin widened.

            "Whatever you want, love!" he told her in that jovial manner of his.  Then he was gone, as well.  She was alone now, really and truly alone.  Fear clutched her.

            _This is stupid.  I'm never going to keep myself alive by just standing here_, the logical voice was back with a vengeance.  Grace took a deep breath, then plunged into the crowd herself.

* * *

            Super Short Author's Note:  I talked to my buddy Bob about the black eye thing.  He told me it didn't take much to give someone a black eye if you hit the edge of that little bone below the eye.  Apparently, if you pheonix-eye somebody really well right there, it's an almost instant black eye with plenty of swelling.  As Grace doesn't know any Kung Fu, that little trick wasn't/isn't an option.  I talked it over with him for a few minutes and he agreed that a bit of a bruise would be best.  Puppy gave me the idea for the cut from the ring (Thanks!), which I rather like.^_^  Thanks to everybody who reviewed the last chapter, feedback is greatly appreciated on my part.^_^

Thanks for reading!^_^


	9. All For Me Grog

            While Grace wasn't quite of what she _should_ do, the moment she began to wander the streets of Tortuga she developed a very firm grasp on what she _wanted_ to do.  She wanted to get drunk off her arse and not start thinking about tomorrow until it hit her.  That sensible voice in her head whined more than a little about what a bad idea it was, but it did convince her to take a few precautions.  She decided to find one of the quieter pubs to do her drinking—she was less likely to get her purse stolen or her jaw broken (something she was wary of after glancing through the window of an establishment called the _Faithful Bride_).

She chose what seemed to be one of the tamest bars on the entire island, the _Seagull's Egg_.  It was a jolly place and she was first drawn into the pub on the outskirts of town by the loud singing she heard from within.  Inside a small group of minstrels were gathered around the fire, belting out the lyrics to a bawdy song she'd never heard before.  Even patron in the common room seemed to know the words to the chorus, which they joined in on every time around.  It wasn't even terribly crowded.  A table of three old men sat at the table nearest the fire, their mugs raised and moved to punctuate the words of the chorus, sloshing drink all over the table—and themselves.  A very rotund man with a wide, round face and a thick red beard was laughing loudly at some joke the young, dark-haired man across from him had just finished telling.  There was a very crowded table near the bar full of what she would have called the "younger crowd", though they were probably quite near her own age.  It surprised her that there were more women than men at the table—one young blond with her hair full of curls sat on the lap of a young man whose hair was obviously thinning a bit early.  Beside them was laughing woman with her straight, dark hair shorn off at the shoulders.  To her right was yet another woman, though this one had a child-like stature—she could hear the girl's soprano of the chorus all the way from where she stood at the far side of the room.  Next to the small woman was a fast-talking wench with a rather large nose—she seemed to be telling off the tall, lanky man beside her, who was rolling his eyes.  The tall man's arm was around another young woman with long, stick-straight blonde hair who looked more than a little like the lass sitting on her man's lap.  At her right was a young woman with her reddish hair tucked into a bun who chose to shake her head at the proceedings.  At yet another table sat a scarred man that she judged to be in his middle-years—she also judged both him and his companion to be pirates.  The last occupied table held the mugs of two more men—one was a tall, formidable-looking bald man, the other a squat old man with thick graying hair who looked a trifle disorganized.

There was an obviously well fed man behind the counter who seemed to own the establishment, and two young women flitted from table to table, keeping drinks full and picking up shillings.  The minstrels finished their song amid cheers and there were cries all around for one shanty or another.  Grace crossed to an empty table near the bar, the crowded table of youths between her and the minstrels.  The large-nosed wench and the child-like young woman beside her had both stood and were calling to the musicians for "Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum".  Grace found herself suppressing a laugh at their behavior as a buxom redheaded wench seemed to appear out of thin air to ask what she'd like.

            "What do you have?" she asked, almost forgetting to use her "Grey" voice.  The woman heaved a great sigh before speeding through a well-memorized list of food and drink that Grace caught very few words of.  Thankfully, she caught the words "chicken" and "rum" without much trouble and ordered them.

            "That's goin' tae put ye out two shillings," she said, holding out her hand.  Grace set the purse Jack had given her on the table—she hadn't dared to let it out of a death grip on the streets—and pulled out a gold coin.  A little irked, she lifted the pouch to her right eye and opened the mouth wide to peer within.  After jiggling it a bit she judged that there were about nine gold pieces in the purse and nothing else.  She glanced up to see the redheaded woman giving her a hard look and dropped the tenth gold piece into the wench's hand.  The woman raised an eyebrow as she bit the piece to check its authenticity, then, satisfied, left to get a mug for the young "man".  Grace turned her attention to the minstrels, who had already begun a new song, which praised the inventor of beer.

            "Ye kin join us if ye like," it was the blonde woman with straight hair; she'd turned her head and was giving Grace an appraising look.  "There's room fer ye," she gestured to the small amount of space between the redhead and the lovers.

            "If you really don't mind…" she trailed off.  One part of her wanted to drown herself in alcohol—she was utterly alone in this place (which she now saw was Godforsaken), Elizabeth, Will, Mrs. James, and Garth Cooper were all still in Port Royale and there was a good chance she'd never see them again.  Not to mention that she'd been simply abandoned by Jack and his crew—she'd half expected Jack to ask if she wanted to stay on.  _Which is, of course, a very _stupid_ thing to think.  Why would he want _me_ on board?  I punched him for goodness' sakes!_  She'd assumed that Annamaria would, at least, show her around, but the woman had dashed right into the crowd—Bailey following like an ever-present shadow.  There was another part of her—the part that she was (at that moment, anyway) more inclined to listen to.  It was the part that didn't _want_ to be all by herself and knew that if she didn't take _some_ kind of action she'd stay all by herself.

            "A-course, not!" the woman smiled.  The rest of the patrons at the table glanced at her one by one as she walked over and sat down.  The last to give her a once-over was the fast-talking young woman who was still telling that tall man off for some reason or another.  She narrowed a pair of blue eyes after getting a good look at Grace.

            "Why be ye in men's clothes?" she asked.  Grace paled, gripping her pouch tightly.  She realized her error quickly—she had her left arm pressed against her side, presenting some curves that Grey most certainly _didn't_ have.

            "Why don't _you_ shaddup?" the tall man was glaring down at her.

            "Oh, we all know how bloody well likely _that_ is to 'appen," she retorted before looking back to Grace for an answer—an answer which she, honestly, didn't have.

            "She probably thinks they're more comfortable," the small woman piped up, articulating every word.  The big-nosed (not to mention nosy) wench nodded, seeming to accept the answer.  There was a loud clunk as a full wooden mug was placed in front of her.  Grace grabbed it immediately and took a swig.  She was more than a little dismayed to find that the rum had been watered down to the point that it should have rightly been called grog, but hadn't really expected better.

            Just then the musicians struck up a new tune, one that seemed to be both very well known and very well liked.  Every patron in the tavern began to sing and clap along (some with much better voices than others) with plenty of volume and enthusiasm.  Grace clapped along, intent on learning the words and quelling the sudden left-out feeling inside.

            _"And it's all for me grog, me jolly jolly grog,_

_            All for me beer and tobacco!_

_            Well, I spent all me tin with a lassie drinkin' gin,_

_            For across the western ocean I must waaaander!"_

            It was a fairly easy chorus, she mused to herself as the minstrels went on to ask where their "noggin' noggin' boots" were with a little less help from the crowd.  The next time the chorus came around she belted the words out—so what if she mixed up "gin" and "tin" and missed a few of the shorter words?  She grinned broadly—they'd almost never gotten music-makers in the _Tattered Rose_ and she considered it a bit of a treat (though from the state of the pubgoers, their performances were frequent).  She took another swig of grog as the song ended, then started a conversation with the reddish-haired woman.  Before long the child-like woman across the table had joined in and the topic changed from simple introductions to, well, _something_ else.  Grace never could remember—and with good reason.  The chicken came and went, but her mug was refilled often enough that she was never in want of the drink.  She could, however, remember thinking that she'd indeed accomplished the goal of getting drunk off her arse.

            Mary was not in a good mood.  She'd been staying with her brother for two days now and still had no idea of what he was up to.  But she _knew_ he was up to something—that was something in itself, wasn't it?  She'd known he was into something amiss before she'd even departed from London, however, so it really _wasn't_ something.  She let out a sigh and began to unpin her hair—she'd sent the maid to bed hours ago, insisting that she could undress herself, which she had nearly an hour ago.  It was the middle of the night and she was still waiting for Brody to leave his study so she could search it for a clue.  This was the second night in a row that she'd decided to wait up for him to go to bed—the night before he hadn't gone to bed at all.  He'd slept in the room, if he'd slept at all.  She _had_ done the sensible thing and tried the study during the day, while her dear brother was at work, but the doors had been locked.

            She doubted he was on to her, though.  That was why father had sent her in the first place, instead of coming himself.  Brody was less likely to suspect that his sister was digging into his affairs than he was to suspect his father.  She smiled herself as she felt the strands finally come loose and fall to tickle the back of her neck.  Father had shown quite a bit of confidence in her, sending her all the way to Port Royale to investigate her brother's dealings.  She gave a little smirk as she stood, leaving the still unturned bed sheets slightly ruffled.  The full moon bathed her windowed room in light, extinguishing the need for a candle.  She crossed the room, enjoying the feel of the cool wooden floor on her bare feet.  Carefully, she unlocked the window and pushed it open, then leaned on the sill.  Her first glance was down, to the drive that led up to the back door of the two-story home.  Her next glance was to the ocean, shimmering in the moonlight.  It was certainly pretty enough from land, but she dreaded the trip back—she was, it seemed, prone to seasickness.

            A cool breeze ruffled her nightgown and she sighed.  Brody's business had been doing poorly.  Poorly enough that he should have sent to their father for money long ago—but he hadn't.  _Father never really did trust the little weasel,_ she thought with a smirk, remembering that he'd asked her brother's butler to keep him appraised of what went on in her sibling's Caribbean home.  Then again, she didn't blame the old man.  Brody was a troublemaker and a constant blemish on their family's honorable name.  His sickening reputation in London was one matter, the woman he'd killed while there a second.  He also had a horrible gambling problem.  Mary saw him as nothing more than a degenerate and was ashamed to claim any relation to the man.  Which was one reason she'd traveled to this island hideaway—if her brother was maintaining his lifestyle through illegal mean, it would be his downfall.  Their father would disown him and probably name _her_ his heir.  She always had been the favorite, after all.  She made her way to the small table beside her bed and lifted the small teacup she'd left there to her lips.  It had long-since cooled, but the refreshment was welcome and returned some of her alertness.  She'd stay up all night if she had to—and if that didn't work, she'd try something else.  She _would_ get to the bottom of whatever he was up to.  She would see him cast from the family and watch as he floundered without them.

            Someone was shaking her.  A low groan escaped Grace's lips as she lifted her throbbing head.

            "Thought we ought let ye sleep a while, but ole Tom's bootin' us out," a voice near her ear shouted—she recognized it as the voice of the tall man, Robert, from the night before.

            "If yer goin' tae blame me fer her wakin', leave her sleep," came a rough voice from somewhere above her.  She blinked her eyes open and bright natural light filtered around her arms.  She'd had enough of that very quickly and closed them again.  She was sitting, Grace realized suddenly.  She must've fallen asleep at the table—an assumption that was given strength by the wooden surface beneath her head (which rested partly on her arms and partly on the table).

            "You'll make sure she'll all right, Mr. Gall?" came the punctuated voice of the short woman—Katherine, was it?

            "Aye!  Now get yerselves home afore ye miss yer chores!" she heard the roar of several pairs of feet shuffling across the dirt floor.  _I think this may well be the worst hangover I've ever gotten.  Either that, or it was bad rum._  Slowly, carefully, she blinked her eyes open and raised her head.  The well-fed man from the night before—the pub's owner—was wiping the table beside her with a damp cloth.  When he noticed her movement he was beside her in a flash.

            "Are ye feelin' well, lassie?" he asked, putting a large hand on her back.

            "Not partil…" she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the word she was looking for.  It didn't take her long to give up.  "No," she amended.

            "I'll get ye some o' the local remedy," he patted her back before moving off—the jarring didn't help her head one bit.  She'd hardly had time to string her thoughts together when he returned.  "'Ere ye are," he said setting a mug down in front of her.  She eyed it suspiciously, then reached out, grabbed it and took a tentative drink.  It was even viler than Lena's hideous brew.  It took every ounce of determination she had to tip the mug back and try to down it all in one gulp.  It didn't work and she ended up with thick streams of the stuff running down her cheeks.  The man—Tom Gall?—wiped her face with the cloth still in his hand.

            "I'm on Tortuga, aren't I?" she asked laboriously.

            "Aye, and ye drank quite enough for 'alf the population in jus' one night," he replied.  "Now d'ye mind tellin' me what yer doin' walking 'round in men's clothing with a purse full of gold?"  She had a feeling he was trying to get an answer out of her while the hangover still had a good grip.

            "I'm…" she paused, trying to think of a suitable explanation.  Not finding one, she decided a change of subject was in order.  "I'm lookin' for a job."

            "Ye a good worker?" he was eyeing her with a little suspicion in his green eyes.

            "Aye, an' I can cook," she smacked herself internally for the lie—just because she'd gotten lucky on the ship by not having to cook didn't mean she'd get lucky here.  In a tavern that _served_ the stuff fresh.

            "Well, kin ye dress like a woman an' wait the tables?"

            "Just about anything you want as long as I can find a place to sleep and make a living," she told her.  Her throat was clogged with mucus, giving her voice a strange, low tone.

            "Rosie!" he hollered.  Grace groaned at the noise.  "Ye still want some 'elp with the tables?"  The buxom redhead who'd waited on her the night before appeared from a back room and she felt the woman's eye upon her.

            "Aye, she'll do," the woman said, confidence in her tone.

            "Well, then, ye kin get a little more sleep, then we'll give ye a job—what d'ye say to that, eh?" Tom asked.

            "I say 'Aye!'" she told him, putting her head back down and doing her darnedest to get back to sleep.

* * *

            Don't worry, Jack's going to be in the next chapter!  The very first section even!  Brody will show up as well (in more than the less-than-flattering thoughts of his sister).  Chapter the Tenth (double digits!  Yay!^_^;;) will probably be done around Thursday.  If it isn't, you can blame Dan Brown for writing _The Da Vinci Code_, which had me hooked by the second paragraph (ooooh!  It's so good!).  Anyway, I had this entire chapter finished on Sunday—but it was horrible.  Abosolutely atroucious (agh!  Alliteration!).  So I scrapped it and called my buddy Kat to discuss plot twistiness.  Let's just say that the next chapter or two will find the plot sufficiently twisted, thanks in quite a bit of part to Kitty Kat.

            Speaking of people I know in real life, most of the pub's patrons are loosely based on people I know in real life (yes, yes…shameful and sad to do such a thing).  I'll take the digital camera with me next time I see Kat (she's the short wench) and make her do the face she did when she figured it out.  I'll post it on my webpage—it'll be entertaining, I promise. ^_-

            One thing that I could find _nothing_ on was the biting of gold to check for authenticity—if you know anything about the practice, please let me know.  It's driving me nuts. ;P

            *glomps all reviewers* It makes my day whenever I find out that somebody's been enjoying the piece.  That's why I'm writing it, after all. ^_^

            Thanks for reading!^_^


	10. Doors That Close and Lock

            _The Black Pearl_ and her crew were in port at Tortuga for nearly three days.  Most of which were spent hauling supplies to the ship and getting everything in good order so they could set sail once more.  The crew's _nights_, however, were spent in Tortuga's variety of establishments—taverns, the few merchant shops and houses of ill repute were the most popular among the men.  This had the unfortunate side effect, for most of the men, of whittling away their shares of the ransom until they had not a shilling to their name.  The other side of that coin was that by the time the ship was ready to set sail, so was her crew.

            They set sail a little after noon, Jack at the helm—contemplating their destination, among other things.  They could always do the obvious, pilfer and plunder off the coast of the Spanish Main to their hearts' content.  They could set sail for Isla de Muerta and collect a little more of the swag that Barbosa and his men had hidden on the island.  They could also return to Port Royale for Will and Elizabeth, who were probably a little irked at him for leaving them—not to mention probably worried about Grace.  She was easy to worry about, after all.

            Her life may have been filled with the work of her childhood adventures and the fear of her father discovering them, but she'd never had to work for a living.  She may have been to taverns before, but she'd never worked at one—as she apparently was now.  After they'd gotten to Port Royale he'd followed her to the _Seagull's Egg_.  It was probably the best place for her—it was one of the quietest pubs in the town and she wasn't likely to get into trouble there.  He'd checked back the next night, to see if she'd returned.  Quite the surprise greeted him.  At first he didn't see her—that is until he realized that the pretty young barmaid clutching three mugs of rum in her small hands _was_ her.  Her hair and face had been washed.  The chocolate curls were loose, spilling past her shoulders.  Her eyes were wider than usual—he supposed because it was her first day on the job and she wasn't quite sure what she was doing yet.  Instead of the castoffs Will had given her, she wore a dark green dress that laced up over a white chemise.  He watched as she made her way to a table of elderly men and set the drinks down.  He noticed a blush creep onto her cheeks as they thanked her and, presumably, gave her a bit of ribbing.  He'd chuckled to himself as he moved away from the door and continued down the street—he couldn't have planned it better himself.  Sure, she was working as a tavern wench—but it was a respectable place, so chances were Elizabeth wouldn't slap him the next time they met.  When that would be, he still wasn't certain.

            He'd already decided that they'd take it easy—it would be a slow, roundabout course that brought them to whatever destination he decided upon.  Eyes narrowed, he surveyed his crew and the sea that surrounded them.  He made his mind up.  They'd take a nice, meandering trip back to Port Royale.  If they kept to the Cuban coast for a while before making their way south, they'd come all the way around the Isle of Jamaica.  The voyage would probably take a little over a week—more if they ran into any merchant ships.  After they picked up Will and Elizabeth, they could return to Tortuga and check on young Grace.  Not that Jack was concerned, of course, but the fool girl probably needed some looking after.  He grinned to himself as he began to call out orders and change the course of the great vessel.

            Brody's week was most definitely _not_ going in what he would call a good direction.  Edward seemed shaken by his daughter's sudden death and had begun to question their joint venture.  The second spot of trouble was the Commodore's investigation of the wench's death.  The man had returned two days after Grace's apparent murder and had spent the next two days snooping about the matter.  The suspicious eyes of the lawman weren't something Brody wanted on him.  It was an uncomfortable period of time made even more unpleasant by his guest.  He'd never liked Mary.  Since the day of her birth he'd been playing second fiddle to the girl.  She became the apple of their father's eye and _he_ became a bitter disappointment.  Now she was here, flaunting the great big stone on her finger every chance she got and making rude insinuations about his fiancée's fate.  It didn't help that she was a sharp woman and he had to keep on his toes around her, lest she find out about things she shouldn't.  And now, to add to his growing list of frustrations, was _this_.  Brody glanced down at the paper in his hands once more before crumpling it in a tight fist.  A messenger had only just delivered it and he still stood in front of the closed door, glaring at the darkly stained wood.

            Elizabeth and Will were to marry within the week.  He didn't mind that the pair was to exchange vows—just that they'd chosen to do it on what was shaping up to be a very busy day.  It wasn't as though he could just skip out on it, though.  That would raise some red flags for certain and he didn't need that any more than he needed Mary dogging his every move.  Not to mention that five days was _short bloody notice_.

            He did find it strange that the couple would choose to hold their wedding a mere ten days after Grace's supposed death.  He had a very strong feeling that the wench was still alive.  That was quite possibly the only thing that was going right.  If she _was_ alive, most of the world thought she was dead—meaning he wouldn't have much trouble if he wanted to be sure that most of the world was correct.  He just needed to figure out where she was.  Brody smiled to himself.  He had a few good ideas of where she could be and had plans to pursue them after the wedding.  Even Edward didn't know of that little outing—the man though his young associate was going to be checking up on business.  Brody would, of course, check to be sure the isle was properly stocked, but his first stop was the pirate haven of Tortuga.  He'd chartered passage on one of his own vessels.  _For the day of the wedding—I'll have to change the schedule._  He sighed.

            "Good morning, brother dear," came a soft voice from behind him.  He turned from the door to see Mary dressed for the day and ready to leave.  "Whoever was at the door?"

            "The governor's daughter is to be married in five days," he told her, his tone patronizing.  "Our presence has been requested."  It looked as though Mary was genuinely smiling—whether it was because of his obvious annoyance or the wedding itself, he wasn't sure.

            "That's simply _delightful_, Brody.  Elizabeth and her father are both very happy about the match," she'd taken on that 'I-know-more-than-you' tone.  Mary had dined with the Swanns on her third evening in Port Royale.  She and Elizabeth seemed to get on all right and they'd been shopping twice since.

            "Yes, well, I have business to attend to," he told her, before turning back to the door and letting himself out.  He heard the door slam behind him.

            _That pig_, Mary glared at the polished wood of the door before turning on her heel and making her way to her brother's study.  She'd gotten in only once and it had been a very short investigation—Brody had nearly come upon her rifling through his papers.  She smiled as the handle turned with her hand.  He'd gotten careless, today.  She looked around before slipping into the room and closing the door softly behind her.

            Light filtered in through a single window, illuminating the room with a natural brightness.  To her right was her brother's desk, to her left a rather large cabinet.  Bookshelves—some empty, some not—were on every wall.

            She attacked his desk first—where she'd left off the first time.  Captains' logs and cargo listings little the surface and she'd gotten through them in no time.  She tried the drawers next, but met with the resistance of a lock each time (except when she tried the top drawer, which container only extra ink and paper).  She scanned his bookshelves next, looking for anything out of the ordinary.  To her annoyance, she could find nothing out of place.  After a quick look through a cabinet that she found to contain nothing save liquor, she returned to the desk—desperate to find _some_ kind of evidence of what her brother was up to.  This time, the sheet on top caught her eye.

            It was a letter from a Captain Furey to her brother, assuring the man that he could have passage on Furey's ship, _The Rainbow_, anytime he pleased.  She narrowed her eyes as she scanned the paper a second time.  This was interesting, indeed.  She wondered where Brody intended to go and when.

            A door slammed suddenly and she jerked her head up.  She could hear the quick, dull thuds of footsteps heading toward the study door and ducked down behind the desk, leaving the paper where it was.  Her breath caught in her throat as the door opened.  She could hear and feel her pulse pounding in her ears and had trouble convincing herself that whoever was in the room with her (and she was sure it must be her brother) couldn't hear it.  The footsteps came closer to the desk, then stopped.  She heard the rustle of paper, then the footsteps receded.  The door creaked as it closed.

            Mary peered up over the desk.  The letter was gone, but everything else seemed to be there.  A sudden click from the door sent a wave of cold dread washing over her.  That was the sound of locks tumbling into place.  She waited several minutes, listening carefully until she heard the front door close, then rushed from her hiding place to the door.  She grasped the handle and jerked downward.  It was no use—the handle barely moved.  She was locked in.

            Grace was exhausted.  She'd been working at the _Seagull's Egg_ for two nights and still hadn't found time for a good block of uninterrupted sleep.  She was actually beginning to doubt that she'd ever sleep well again.  She liked the work, she liked Tom and Rosie and Tortuga itself seemed to be a pretty nice place.  But she didn't think she'd ever really belong here.  She was sure she'd pick up the routine sooner or later, but routine and belonging were two entirely different things.  While she didn't miss much of her old life, she couldn't help but wonder what Will and Elizabeth were up to—not to mention Garth, Mrs. James and Lena.  At the thought of Will and Elizabeth, her hand crept across the tattered straw mattress to where her sword lay—just barely within reach.  She felt naked while working, without it strapped to her side.  At least she still had her bracelet—and her clothes fit (even though the laces of her dress pulled tight enough to remind her of a corset).

            She sighed and rolled onto her back.  It was the middle of the day and she'd just finished helping Rosie clean up from the night before.  She'd taken a little walk before retiring to the upstairs room she shared with Bella, the other barmaid.  Rosie shared a room with Tom, though the two of them weren't wed (Grace thought this more than a little scandalous).  She closed her eyes, trying to relax and fall asleep—it just wasn't working.  She gave another aggravated sigh and thought back to her walk.  She'd gone down to the harbor—as she had the day before—to look at the ships and perhaps meet one of the _Pearl_'s crew.  She hadn't seen any familiar faces, but today she'd met with an unpleasant surprise.  The _Black Pearl_ was gone.  Nobody had even said goodbye.

            Until then she'd been holding onto a silly little daydream of Jack seeking her out and asking her to return to the ship.  Now it was gone.  She was stuck here.  Jack wasn't coming back for her.  Then again, she really couldn't blame him.  She'd probably been nothing but a thorn in his side—and a quick buck.  Her heart ached to feel the gentle rolling of waves beneath her feet.  The memory of gently rocking waves slowly began to make her eyelids droop.  As she drifted into an uneasy sleep her last coherent thought was of a pirate with dark, kohl-lined eyes.  _He didn't even say goodbye…_

            _Well this is just bloody grand now, isn't it?_  Mary sat on the floor of her brother's study, glaring at the gleaming handle of the locked door.  _Of course he'd lock the door behind him.  He's always been protective of his secrets._  That was how he'd gotten by.  Few people found out about his more unsavory acts.  There were the rumor mills, of course, but most of that was talk between the servants.  Some were true, some simply fabrication and most discounted by the wealthy as overly embellished.

            His reputation in London had taken over two years to surface—even to family members.  Not only did he gamble a great deal (and lose) in those two years, but he'd also made the rounds of cheap prostitutes in the poorer parts of town on a very regular basis.  _That_ was why his doings had surfaced.  The rumor mill said he'd killed a woman with his bare hands.  It was close enough to the truth, she supposed.  She and her cousin Lily had been staying in the city with her brother when it had happened.  The two girls had been far too curious for their own good and decided to follow the young man on one of his mysterious nightly outings.  Through some sick twist of fate it had been the very night Brody met with the destitute whore named Madie.  She'd been no rare beauty, but she was pretty enough and still young.  It quickly became apparent that the ale her brother had downed before leaving the house didn't have a good effect on his attitude.

            As much as either of the girls could figure, giggling as they peered though a grimy window, she asked for payment first.  Brody had hit her and in the struggle that ensued she'd knocked her head on the brass doorknob.  Madie had fallen unconscious to the floor.  The pool of blood that quickly formed beneath her greasy black hair was a telltale sign that she wouldn't be waking up.  Shaken and afraid, Mary and Lily had taken off.  They didn't stop running until they'd reached Brody's home.  They packed at once and had one of the stable boys rig a horse and buggy and drive them to Mary's father's country home.

            Her father had been furious.  Brody had done his best to keep clear of the family since then.  That was probably why he'd chosen Port Royale as the home of his new shipping company.  To stay out of his father's eyes so he could do whatever he wanted.  That certainly wouldn't work for much longer.

            She looked around the room and her eyes lit upon the window.  She smiled as she rose and made her way to it.  She unlocked it and pushed it open with more than a little struggle—it obviously hadn't been opened in a while.  She stuck her head through the opening and looked down.  The room was on the first floor so the drop wasn't much of a concern.  She knew her brother would notice the open window, but it was better than him noticing her when he returned that evening.  Careful not to tear the fabric of her dress, she sat on the windowsill and swung her legs and skirt out of the room, then dropped to the ground.  As she landed, she noticed the sharp pain in her shoulder—she must have knocked it into the side of the window.  She brushed herself off and did her best to push the window closed from the outside.  When she was finished, it remained ajar, but there was a chance her brother wouldn't notice.  Creeping back into the house through the back door, she thought back to the paper her brother had taken.  She wasn't sure why he'd returned for it, but she was almost certain it was now in his office.  

            _I'll bet that's where he's hiding everything_, she thought with a smirk.  As she reached for the parasol she'd left by the front door she noticed a tear in her skirt and her mood was immediately dampened once again.  _I will certainly be glad when this business is over and Brody's out in the cold where he belongs_, she mused, climbing the stairs to change her dress.

* * *

Author's Note:  Whew!  Let's just say it's been a looooooooong week.  Right now there's people here staining the woodwork—those are some interesting fumes.o.0;;  Anyway, I originally uploaded this chapter without a note and I figured I ought to amend that little detail.  It _was_ one in the morning, after all, I forgot…Gomen!.

A great big thank you to Yvie, Altachica and Damaia for the information on biting gold!  I've seen it in movies and  I wasn't certain whether or not it was a Hollywood fabrication.^_^;;

Another great big thank you to everybody who reviewed!  *huggles the breath out of all of them*  I feel extremely bad about dropping the ball and getting this chapter out a week late.  Gomen nasai!

Chapter eleven should be up pretty soon.  Tonight I'm going to dinner with my brothers, then I'm going to a lecture by Terry Goodkind (he writes the Sword of Truth books—great fantasy!^_^), but I should be able to get some work done before then.

Thanks for reading!^_^


	11. Eggshells

            Elizabeth was a little surprised how quickly the wedding preparations went.  It wasn't an extravagent ceremony, something that no doubt contributed to the matter.  She was overjoyed to wear her mother's wedding dress instead of waiting for a stylish new corseted affair from London (she wanted to be able to _breathe_ on her wedding day, after all).  Later on, it irked her that she could only barely remember the ceremony.  She realized after that she'd spent it staring into Will's eyes.  Not an all together unpleasant way to spend her time, but she was certain that other things had _probably_ happened during that time.

            She did remember walking down the aisle on her father's arm and the aroma of bright, Jamacian flowers wafting through the air.  She also recalled seeing Brody Fenton and his sister in attendance, as well as Commodore Norrington.  A tiny pang of guilt hit her when she saw the officer, but it evaporated moments later when it struck her that she was suddenly standing beside Will and they were to be married.  She felt ready to burst in all directions with joy, excitement and even a little fear.

Elizabeth did realize that some of her excitement was due to the plans she and Will had made regarding their honeymoon.  Their official plan was to sail the length of Jamacia and then return home—she and Will had plotted to change course and sail north to Tortuga, instead.  There they would arrange a makeshift ceremony of sorts and be wed again, this time with Jack, Grace and the crew of the _Pearl_ in attendance.

She vaguely recalled saying the words, "I do" and hearing Will utter them, as well.  Her favorite part of the wedding, however, was after they were pronounced man and wife.  Will leaned down and his lips gently brushed against hers, as though he was afraid to break her.  It didn't take long for their kiss to creep from acceptable and delicate to far from chaste.  Indeed, it would later become known as scandelous and she'd choose to roll her eyes whenever the topic was broached within her earshot.

Mary was quite unaware that her jaw was hanging agape.  That was most definetly _not _a seemly kiss and it certainly wasn't appropriate for the public eye.  She felt the heat of a blush creeping into her cheeks as Elizabeth and her new husband parted breathlessly and began to jog down the aisle.  Mary shook her head.  She turned to the left just in time to notice Brody standing to leave.

            "Wherever are you going, brother _dear_?" she asked, making her eyes as round and innocent as she possibly could.  She had her suspisions, but dared not give them any voice just yet.

            "Unlike certain whimsical young ladies, I have business to attend to," her gave her a dark look.  Mary had never felt such venom directed at her before and she felt a slight prick of fear.  As the rest of the guests began to stand and mingle, all the while meandering in the general direction of the reception, Mary gathered her skirts and discreetly followed her sibling.  It wasn't an easy task, weaving through the small crowd and at the same time trying to look inconspicuous as she moved in an entirely different direction than everyone else—except for Brody, of course.  She followed him as he wove his way through the remainder of the wedding-goers, then through the city itself.

            It was with a smirk of satisfaction that he led her to the docks.  She'd been right.  Mary watched from a safe distance as he boarded a longboat that quickly set out for a ship in the harbor—_The Rainbow_.  As causually as she could, Mary strolled down to the dock to where a young man in ragged clothing knelt, getting another small boat ready to go.

            "Might I inquire," she asked with an air of curiousity.  The man's head snapped up from what he was doing and he stared at her in surprise with bright blue eyes.  "Where that ship is going?" she pointed to the ship her brother was now aboard.

            "_The Rainbow_?" he asked.  At her nod a thoughtful look overtook him.  "I b'lieve she's settin' sail fer Tortuga, ma'am."  She let a bit of shock appear on her face.

            "Isn't that a pirate settlement?"

            "Aye, ma'am, a right dangerous place," he stood to face her.  She paused for a moment before asking her next question.

            "Are there any other ships sailing for Tortuga soon?"  He regarded her warily for a moment, then leaned close and whispered conspiratorily.

            "Aye, _The Gilded Rose_.  She sets sail t'night, s'posedly fer a cruise down the isle, but the passengers asked fer a little change 'o course.  I'm on 'er crew, in fact," he seemed to swell just a bit with pride.  "They're in with pirates, them Turners," she could nearly feel the sweat rolling down his unshaven cheek, his face was so close to her own.  Mary barely noticed it—she was too preoccupied with the plan that was coming together in her head.

            "Is there any way?" she asked in just as conspiratorial a whisper.  "That I could barter passage on that ship without my…Identity being known?"  He leaned back and regarded her carefully.

            "Aye, ma'am," he nodded.  "There jus' may be.  The cook's broken a leg.  If ye kin bind yer chest, I might be able to git ye aboard as 'is 'elper," he smiled and rubbed his thumb against his fingers.  "It's goin' ta' cost ye, though."  She grinned back at him and pulled several coins from her handbag.

            "I think that can be arranged."

            "Name's Earl," he said, extending a hand.  She glanced at it disdainfully before taking and shaking it firmly.  It was rough, warm and slick from sweat.

            "And you can call me Mary," her grin widened as she glanced at _The Rainbow_.  "Well, Earl, I believe we have an accord."

            Unbeknownst to either, a pair of keen eyes watched them from across the water.

            "Get yerselves up ladies!" the harsh yell was accompanied by a startling thud against the door.  Grace awoke suddenly, pulled violently from a pleasant dream.  She listened as Tom's heavy steps creaked down the hallway before sitting and wiping the sleep from her eyes.  Bella was already exchanging her sleep clothes for the red dress she wore for work.  Grace let a sigh escape her lips before changing into her own dress.

            She'd already lost track of time.  She knew she couldn't have been working at _Seagull's Egg_ for very long, but it certainly _felt_ like an eternity.  This was not the kind of life she'd imagined for herself on Tortuga from the deck of the _Pearl_.  A pang of sadness struck her at the thought of the ship.  She didn't want to miss Captian Jack Sparrow and his crew—she wanted to be angry at them.  She wanted to be oblivious to the fact that they were gone.  The problem was, she couldn't help but miss the freedom she'd enjoyed—especially in her current situation.  Every day she woke a little before sunset, worked all night, cleaned up around dawn, and had a little time to herself before going to sleep—only to wake a few hours later to start the process all over again.  She was certainly glad that she had food and shelter—and extremely glad to have gotten out of marrying Brody—but the life couldn't help but bore her.

            "Ye've always got somethin' on yer mind, Gracie," Bella was giving her a curious look.  In the past several days, the two young women had gotten to know each other rather well.  Tall and thin with blonde locks spilling into across a finely boned face, Bella was a pretty thing—_probably,_ Grace surmised, _why she works for Tom_.  Tom Gall was a formidable man and his was not an unruly tavern.  No one messed about with Tom's wenches without the girl's favor—it was an unspoken rule Grace had yet to see broken.

            "Well, a lot's happened in the past few weeks," Grace ducked her eyes from Bella's grey stare.  She didn't intend to tell the other woman a thing about her flight—she didn't intend to tell _anyone_ about that little adventure, in fact.  Bella let out a resigned 'hmph' before changing the subject.

            "Say, did ye see that pirate lookin' at ye on yer first night servin'?  I hadn't got a chance to ask 'til now," Grace rolled her eyes.  Most conversations Grace had overheard that involved Bella also involved men.  Grace had already decided not to get mixed up with the opposite sex until things had been quiet for a good long time, but humored her coworker anyway.

            "No, Bella, I'm afraid I missed 'im," she drew her stomach in as she began to pull the laces of her bodice tight.

            "He just stared at you from the door for a moment before walkin' away.  Dark but 'andsome," she let out a sigh.  "I'll bet 'e was a pirate captain."  Grace's eyes narrowed.

            "Just what did this dark and handsome pirate look like, Bella?"

            "Well, he—"

            The door burst open to reveal a cross-looking Rosie.  To say the least, the red-head had a coarse personality.  To those who weren't customers, her cutting words often dripped with sarcasm.  Her word carried authority and she was respected by all of the pub's regulars.  Grace liked her, even when the woman's sharp words were directed in her direction.  As they happened to be just then.

            "Are ye' goin' tae spend all night lolly-gaggin' up 'ere or are ye' goin' to save yerselves getting' fired?" Without another word, Bella and Grace bustled past her.

            The thought of her mysterious 'admirer' slipped from Grace's mind.

"This way," Earl's voice was hushed as he led Mary down the dock to a waiting longboat.  Mary followed—she didn't have much choice in the matter, after all.  His calloused hand encircled her wrist in a grip she doubted she could break.  Not to mention that she'd bound her chest so tightly that breathing caused her discomfort and distraction.  The sun had nearly set by the time they reached the longboat, packed with the last of the supplies to go to the ship.  She concentrated on respiration as they crossed the harbor.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  It was a soothing practice and would have put her to sleep if she hadn't been as aware of her situation.  She knew she was doing a fool thing, but she wasn't going to let Brody get away with whatever he was doing.  The quiet slip of the water around the oars lulled her mind a little until they'd reached the ship.  As the boat thunked against the hull of _The Gilded Rose_, Mary reached carefully for the first rung of the ladder.  A shudder ran through her as a hand grasped her shoulder.

            "Nice an' easy, aye, _Marty_?" Earl released her when she nodded silently.

            _I hope I don't faint_, she mused as she began her climb.  The plan, so far, was going well.  She was the cook's assistant for the voyage, a young man named Marty.  She'd be able to stay out of sight of Will and Elizabeth and once they reached Tortuga, she'd be free to spy on her brother until they departed.

            She peeked her head over the side of the vessel—it was a din of activity, men rushing here and there, preparing to sail.  She took a deep breath, then heaved herself over the side.

* * *

Author's Note:  You may now hurl spears for the lateness of this chapter.

Damaia—As I understand it, Port Royale was destroyed by earthquake, but rebuilt in the same spot.  I'm going by what's listed as the approximate time at the official PotC site (it's under production somewhere…).  I'm also going by the Disnified version of Port Royale—more reputable than historically accurate.

THANK YOU to every who's reviewed.  I feel like crap for letting this chapter go for so long. .  I hope this chapter is up to snuff and apologize for the shortness of the wedding (I've never been to a wedding).  I also apologize for the lack of Jack, but I assure you that chapter twelve will see more than a bit of him. ^_-

Anyway, that's all the author's note I'm going to write, because I'd like to get this uploaded.^_^;;

Thanks for reading!^_^


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